Limits
by wbss21
Summary: The Joker's always been known for his fearlessness, his unyielding, apathetic nature.  But what happens when an obsessed doctor decides to test the limits of that fearlessness?  Will the Joker's greatest strength become his greatest weakness?
1. Chapter 1

**Limits:**

**Chapter 1:**

"He's perfect."

The man leaned back, his lips pulling in to a smile of excited realization, one hand stroking absently at his graying beard, the other tapping rhythmically atop the opened file, laid out before him.

"Absolutely perfect."

"Sir?" A man standing to his right questioned, looking expectantly.

He looked up at the lackey, his smile widening to a grin.

"His tolerance for pain and heavy trauma, it seems almost inhuman, if these reports are accurate. And he's shown no reaction whatsoever to fear inducing chemicals or states of hypnosis. Not even Jonathan Crane's toxin had any affect beyond seeming to _excite_ him. Laurence, my boy, we've been met with disappointment after disappointment, I'm afraid, all subjects thus far failing to meet expectation. But he… _he_ very well may be the answer to unlocking all we've ever wanted to know about the thresholds of human suffering."

Laurence nodded, his eyes drifting down to the open file, scanning over its contents, over the photograph pinned to the top, right corner.

"So…" his employer began. "Have you located him yet? I should like to get underway as quickly as possible."

Laurence's eyes snapped back up, his head shaking slowly, somewhat hesitantly.

"We're still working on it. He's a difficult man to pin down Sir. He never seems to stay in one place for longer then a day or two."

The man nodded, his glasses shining as they caught the light overhead.

"Very well then. But as soon as you _have_, I want immediately to be informed."

"He won't be easy to take." Laurence said, as though the fact weren't obvious.

Again the man nodded.

"No, of course not. But I trust in your abilities to get the job done Laurence. You are, after all, rather expert at it, are you not? Abduction, kidnapping, all that rather… unsavory business." He waved his hands forward for emphasis, laughing lightly. "I'm sure you'll manage. Even if he proves a tad more challenging then your previous marks."

"That might be somewhat understating it Sir." Laurence said.

It only made the man smile.

"But then, that's why we've decided upon him, isn't it my boy? If he were anything _less_ then difficult, I should think him unworthy of our attention at all."

Laurence nodded briskly, his eyes again falling to the open folder, and to that photograph.

"You're certain of this then?" He asked.

And the man once more nodded.

"Utterly."

"His mind is unstable, at best." Laurence brought his eyes up. "And he's exhibited extreme and reckless violence. Should he escape…"

"Your concerns are noted Laurence." The man cut him short, a hint of agitation in his tone. "But you needn't worry yourself. With what I have in mind, escape will be an impossibility. He'll be unable to do little more then lye there and moan, by the time I get through with him. That's assuming, of course, he doesn't turn out to be yet another disappointment and expire on us, or worse still, plead for mercy before the first day is done." He smiled. "But I find such a scenario unlikely. Don't you?"

"Yes Sir." Laurence replied, bowing his head in respectful agreement.

"Very good my boy. Now, go, _find_ him, bring him to me… And Laurence…"

Laurence looked up.

"Do not _fail _me. My research hinges almost entirely on your success."

/

The Joker had become aware of his being followed some two blocks back, but he hadn't been able to really bother himself with the knowledge, or with the idea that he likely should deal with it. He had a date, after all. The Bat expected him. He'd made a promise to the serious fellow that he'd be there, and he wasn't about to allow himself to be late.

If whoever it was that had decided upon so foolish a notion decided then to stop being so blatant a coward, to actually _show_ themselves, well then he would have at them, if only for the sake of rewarding their new found bravery.

Until then, though, he couldn't be bothered, and he kept on jovially, swinging his cane like a baton.

Less then a block later, and he was met by a man, stepping from a shadowed alley, obstructing his way.

So _that's_ what it was going to be then. An _ambush_.

The Joker stopped, planting his cane down on the pavement with an audible thwack, his hands folding over its head, curling round it.

He leaned forward, smiling thinly at the man.

"Hello." He said softly, looking at him from under his lids.

The man said nothing, standing stiffly some five feet back.

There was fear in his eyes.

"So…" the Joker began, brows rising in expectancy of an answer, straightening, hands still folded over his cane. "Is it just the two of you then? Or have you brought along _friends_?"

In reply, from the surrounding alleys and out the doors of derelict and abandoned buildings, stepped more men, carrying with them various weapons, chains and lengths of metal pipe.

From behind there was the sound of gravel crunching underfoot, and the Joker's smile grew. He glanced about. There were ten he could see, more in back of him he couldn't

"Ah!" He gave a nod. "There we are. How silly of me, to think you might willingly have endangered yourselves. Though of course you _have_. You just remain unaware of the fact."

Still the man said nothing, nor did the one behind, the one who'd been following him.

The Joker sighed.

"Well you see dears…" he began. "I have rather an important engagement that I should like to keep, and though I'm sure to tangle with you would, in the _least_, provide _some _form of amusement, I'm afraid to do so would cause me to become _late_ for said engagement. And I must be honest, such an occurrence would make me _most _displeased."

Once again, the only reply was silence, though some of the men's frames tensed visibly. And again the Joker sighed, looking down, his head shaking.

This really was annoying.

_But_, he thought, ce le vie, the burdens of the reputation.

The man in front stepped towards him, one step.

Stupid.

The Joker reacted in an instant, his hand gripping tight round his canes head, pulling it free from the body. He covered the distance between them quicker then the man himself, and in his right hand he now held a dagger, some eight inches long, which in a motion almost too quick to see, he dragged across the man's throat, splitting it wide.

Blood poured out in a hot wave, too much blood, and the man collapsed, gasping, gargled, bubbles of red spit pushing through his lips as he groped blindly and uselessly at the now gaping wound.

The Joker turned, hearing the rush of steps from behind. Another man, swinging at him with a baseball bat. He dipped under it, rearing up, slicing the blade along the man's mouth. And before he'd even hit the ground, the Joker again turned, having seen another assaulter from his periphery, coming fast. And he met him, reaching out with his free hand, wrapping his fingers round the back of the man's head and pulling him down, driving the knife up from below, sinking it in to his gut, halfway to the hilt.

The man's eyes went wide, a barely audible whimper sliding from his throat, tensing for a moment in the Joker's hands before he slumped forward, falling limp.

The Joker's hand gripped tight round the daggers handle, his teeth grinding together as he pressed his palm to the man's face, pushing him off and away, the blade coming free of his body as he fell backwards.

It was scarcely a second later the Joker heard more footfalls, and before he could turn now, there suddenly was something cold and hard against his throat, pulling immediately tight. A chain. And then a whipping noise, and he felt something wind round his ankle, that too pulling taught, digging in to his skin through the material of his pants, a metal wire. It was jerked violently forward, dragging him with it, off his feet, and he fell hard to his back, the man with the chain following him down, not loosening his hold.

The Joker grunted as his air began to dissipate, the chain squeezing tighter.

Oh, he was going to be late for _sure_ now.

So _very_ annoying.

He hoped Batman wouldn't leave before he got there.

He still had hold of his dagger, and bringing it up and back, he slammed it down in to the man's forearm, and the man screamed, his grip on the chain at once loosening, then releasing completely as he fell backwards. The Joker took hold of the now slack metal links, tossing them aside and turning, reaching out and wrapping his fingers round the knifes handle. The man's wails raised in pitch as the blade was dragged across his arm, still buried deep, then twisted and ripped out.

The Joker wasted no time in coming back to the metal wire round his ankle, grabbing hold of it with his free hand, pressing the knifes edge underneath it's bottom, giving it pressure. The wire snapped, whipping backwards, and the Joker began to stand.

He hadn't straightened fully before he was slammed from behind and sent flying forward, crashing hard to the ground. His forehead slapped against the pavement, arms splayed out, elbow's smashing down in to concrete.

A high pitched buzzing rung loud in his ears, an explosion of white filling his eyes, and the knife went spinning from his hand, skittering across the street.

The man on top buried his fingers in the Joker's hair, lifting his head up and slamming it back down. The buzzing intensified, another explosion of white. He went to do it again, and the Joker reached up, gripping to the attacker's wrist, digging his fingernails in to the skin as hard as he could.

The man cried out, his grip loosening for only a moment, and the Joker twisted around, letting go the wrist and reaching up with both hands, taking hold on either side of his attackers head, his fingers curling down over the ears, his thumbs moving over the eyes. And he pressed in to them, viciously, his mouth pulling tight, brow furrowing as he increased the pressure.

The man on top began to scream, the sound high and broken as he tried without success to pull free from the Joker's grip.

Blood began to seep out from behind the Joker's thumbs, down the man's cheeks, and his cries grew worse, more desperate.

"For _Christ's sake_ Johnson, where _are _you?" Laurence spit in to his receiver, watching from twenty-five feet away what was happening. "_Hit him_!"

"I'm trying Sir!" Johnson's frantic voice came back over the com link. "My gun's jammed!"

Laurence could feel his anxiety rise, his teeth grinding together.

This wasn't going well. This wasn't going well at all.

"Well FIX IT!" He screamed, eyes widening as he watched the Joker push his man off him, watched as he fell over on to his back, his face a mask of crimson, thick and uneven around the eyes. His screams had by then turned to low and agonized moans, and he rolled left to right, twitching, convulsing.

The Joker's hands were red as the man's face, long, gloved fingers glistening wet.

He stood, his chest fast rising and falling from his effort, his eyes scanning the ground for his lost weapon.

He saw it then, resting ten feet back, placed underneath the ball of a foot. And his gaze lifted, seeing in front of him ten men, all brandishing bats, and chains and pipes.

They were staring back, alert and anxious… _afraid_.

The Joker regarded them a moment, hearing shifts of movement from behind, and he looked back over his shoulder, seeing ten men more, carrying similar fare.

They'd circled around him, standing stark still, away.

His eyes moved forward again. And he smiled, straightening.

"Well come on then boys…" he said, breathless, smile growing to a grin. "Let's have you."

No one moved.

"Oh _come_ now…" the Joker started. "Surely you haven't so quickly lost your ner…"

His words halted at a sudden and sharp prick along the neck.

"Got him!" Johnson said in to his receiver.

Laurence only watched.

The Joker blinked, reaching up, fingers coming down along the side of his neck, bumping something hard and cylindrical, what felt like rigid feathers round its end.

He gripped it, tearing it out, bringing it close to his face, eyes narrowing.

A tranquilizer dart.

His gaze moved back up, to the men around, arm slowly lowering to his side.

"Heh." He laughed lightly, head cocking to the side. "Well played."

The dart dropped from his fingers, making hardly a sound as it hit the street.

No one moved.

The Joker's vision blurred.

His mouth pulled down at the sides.

"You _cowards_." He hissed.

There was dizziness.

And then there was nothing.

His eyes rolled back in his head.

He collapsed, legs folding under him like paper, falling against his shoulder, on to his back, arms laid out at his sides, limp.

Seconds past. The men remained as they were.

Laurence's face pulled tight.

More seconds.

And finally he stepped forward, crossing the distance, until he was within a few feet of the Joker.

He looked with scrutiny upon the fallen madman.

"Joker!" He snapped loudly.

No answer.

He let go a shaky breath.

The men watched, hands gripping tight to their weapons.

Laurence swallowed.

He felt the prickling numbness of fear as he slowly reached his leg forward, a rush dropping down through his stomach as he pressed the ball of his foot against the Joker's shoulder, his entire body tensing in dread-filled anticipation of an attack.

But nothing happened.

He gave the Joker a shove.

No reaction.

And Laurence felt his entire frame go slack, shoulders slumping in relief.

"He's out." He said.

A small murmur broke out among the men, their own release of tension.

Laurence straightened, turning.

"Take him." He ordered. "Secure him."

He began to stride away, allowing himself a small smile.

"_Oh, he'll be pleased_." He thought. "_He'll most definitely be pleased_."

The men waited for him to pass.

And then they began forward, slowly, circling round the Joker's unmoving form, moving… moving in on him, closing the distance around.

/

**So, hey everyone. Just had this idea pop in to my head a few days ago, and I thought I'd give it a go. I hope it wasn't terrible and that you enjoyed it. Feedback is appreciated, so if you get the chance, please leave a review. Let me know if you like it, love it, hate it, if you think I should continue, etc… And thanks so much to everyone who took the time to read! I really appreciate it!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

There was blackness.

But blackness was still awareness, and he realized this before he came to understand from where the blackness came.

He was awake.

His eyes were closed.

And he then realized the heaviness of his own lids as he struggled to lift them, the things sticking, like some stubborn child refusing to release its hold on a favorite toy.

But he'd been in this position before.

Drugs. Drugs did this sort of thing to you.

His lids fluttered, and the blackness became less pitch, penetrated by flashes of white, settling out in to more muted light as finally they stopped sticking, and his retinas began their adjustment to the presence of brightness.

His vision blurred heavily, and for a moment, he could see nothing before him but a flat expanse of grey, seeming to double over on itself.

He shook his head, blinking rapidly, and thought then to rub his eyes, to clear his sight.

It was in trying to move his arms, to bring his hands to his face, he discovered he could not, and with the discovery, the return of sensation to his body.

There was a stiffening soreness which seemed settled inside his limbs, growing more pronounced at the joints of his shoulders, and a tingling numbness, he realized, running from his wrists and up, to the tips of his fingers. His head throbbed with the familiarity of having been hit too hard, his throat and lips dry. And as his senses grew gradually more acute, he then was aware of something hard pressed against his wrists, and then the position of the arms themselves, up and back, above and on either side of his head.

Clarity came quickly, his head snapping up from its lolling state. And his gaze turned, following the line of his arm, pressed flat against a concrete wall, held and pinned in place above his head by a thick, iron manacle slapped tight around the wrist. His head turned, his eyes lifting to the other arm, held just the same, and he realized the manacles were a single strip of metal, bolted against this wall, trapping his hands above his head, too far apart and too tightly pressed for him to have any maneuverability.

"_No dislocating the thumbs then_…" he thought. One had to be able to grab hold of the digit in order to do so. In any event, he gauged, the manacles were too closely pressed to his wrists for there to be enough spacing, so even if he could reach one hand with the other and dislocate the thumbs, there would be no slipping out of the iron grips. This being the reason for the numbness. His blood circulation was being closed off.

He pushed hard against the restraint, wanting to test just how solidly built it was, and he got his answer when there was no sort of movement, no wobble or rattle. The strip of metal was bolted well against the wall.

Not exactly a surprise.

His eyes shifted down, to his legs, which were laid out flat in front of him, these without restraint, and it was then he realized his clothes were gone, and he thought it strange how he hadn't noticed earlier. In their place he wore a plane white short sleeved shirt and drawstring sweatpants. His feet were bare, no shoes or socks.

That was annoying. He'd really liked that suit he was wearing.

His gaze lifted then, going out across the space, informing him of his surroundings.

It wasn't large, though considerably bigger then his cell at Arkham, though too considerably less furnished.

There in fact was nothing, save for what looked like a ceramic pot, off in a corner to his right, near an iron door with a covered, sliding window. There was no toilet, no sink, no cot. The floor was, like the walls, made of concrete, grey and boring.

He looked up, and there he saw a row of track lighting, along a ceiling at least fifteen feet high. The bulbs weren't very bright, nor were they very dim. It seemed just enough brightness to illuminate the area.

"_A veritable dungeon_." He thought with a slight smirk.

Originality seemed a dying trend.

His attention was drawn immediately when he heard the rattling of keys in a lock, a recognizable sound to him, his eyes moving to the heavy door.

Cameras in the walls then. They must have been watching and noticed that he'd woken.

Moments later, and the entrance came wide. Appearing first was a large man, over six feet, shoulders wide and muscles big, dressed as though some nightclub bouncer, tight black t-shirt and cargo pants, expression superficially mean. And behind him came two men smaller, both dressed well, double breasted suits, one older, the other perhaps in his 40s. He the Joker recognized, from before, from the ambush. He'd been standing back from the action, spewing frantically in to an ear piece, though the Joker hadn't been able to make out the words, ears buzzing too loudly from having had his head smashed against the pavement.

Their having what the Joker assumed a _guard_ enter first let him know of their apprehension.

The guard scanned the area quickly, eyes flitting over the Joker briefly before he stood aside, letting pass the other two as he closed the door, taking up position by its side.

They approached, and the Joker kept his eyes focused forward on them, unblinking.

The older one put a hand up, and the younger one came to a halt.

So now he knew who it was heading the game.

The older man stepped a few feet closer, his hands folding behind his back as he looked down on him, smiling thinly.

And the Joker looked back, expression blank.

"Hello my boy." The man spoke, voice soft, articulate, carrying the slightest hint of a southern accent. Carolina, the Joker thought. It struck him amusing, that the man would refer to him as his _boy_. Indeed, from the looks of him, he must have been in the least twenty-five years his senior, but very few ever _dared _use on him a tone of condensation, or terminology placing him as something _less_. But, if that was the game this one wished to play, then very well, the Joker could play it expertly back.

His expression remained unmoving, and the man continued.

"And how are we feeling?" He asked, bending slightly forward.

The Joker said nothing, and the man straightened.

"Well," he started. "rather a silly question." He admitted. "You're no doubt feeling quite groggy, given the affects of the sedative we hit you with. Perhaps a little dehydrated? Nauseous even?"

He regarded the Joker, who remained silent, face still stoic.

"And that's quite the nasty bruise you've got." He went on, touching a hand to his own forehead to indicate where he meant.

His eyes narrowed slightly when still the Joker didn't speak.

"And here…" he said, suddenly crouching down so that he was eye level with the madman, running a finger across his throat.

The Joker watched him with unmoving eyes.

"You put up quite a fight, young man."

More condensation.

"Killed three of my men, severely injured two others."

Silence.

"Well…" he continued. "one of them we had to put out of his misery, so perhaps that doesn't count. The one whose eyes you gouged out with your thumbs."

Abruptly the man stood, sighing.

"You might be wondering why it is we've brought you here." He said, again looking down at the Joker, who followed him up with his gaze. "My name is Edgar Finius. And this is my assistant, Laurence." He gestured back to the younger man, who remained still, watching. "I'm a doctor." He continued, smiling. "Medical and psychiatric. And _you_, my dear boy, have quite captured my interest."

He waited for some response, for the Joker to say something, anything.

But nothing came, and again the older man's eyes narrowed.

"I have to say, I expected you to be a bit more vocal, given your repu…"

"Where's my suit?" The Joker suddenly spoke, and the doctor's brows rose in mild surprise. "That was a _nice _suit." The lunatic went on. "I hope you didn't throw it away."

For a moment, Finius wasn't sure he'd heard right, staring at the Joker with a look of puzzlement.

"… My boy, do you know where you _are_?" He finally asked, brow furrowed.

The Joker blinked.

"If you're asking about my immediate surroundings…" he began. "I should say quite obviously a _cell_." He suddenly grinned. "An ill-equipped cell, to be certain, but a cell nonetheless. However, if you're asking about the actual, physical address of the place, then I'm sorry, no, I haven't a clue. You see, _Dr_. Finius, that would require previous knowledge of the way one took to get here, and since I didn't _bring_ myself here at all, but rather was _brought_ while incapacitated, that would make my possession of such previous knowledge impossible. Would it not? And if the latter, my _dear_, that would render your question rather an absurd one." He chuckled lowly. "As absurd as that beard you sport. I mean, really, what _is_ it with you mad scientist types? You seem to fall in to stereotypes as though they were holes in the ground."

Annoyance flashed in the older man's eyes as the Joker now smiled up at him.

But quickly he regained himself, his expression falling flat.

"Yes, well…" he started, eyes falling momentarily to the floor. "I only ask since your own question seemed so strangely out of place. You're aware I've taken you prisoner, yes?"

The Joker stretched out his fingers before letting his hands again fall, hanging limp over the metal pressing down across his wrists.

"I would say you've made that quite clear." He answered, nodding.

"And you're asking what's been done with your _suit_?"

"It was a _nice_ suit." He repeated.

Dr. Finius inhaled deeply, letting it go with another sigh.

"Perhaps I should explain my intent?"

"Oh, _please_ do." The Joker replied mockingly.

Another flash of annoyance.

"… I'm conducting research. More specifically, research in to the capacity of the human being to endure and cope with circumstances of extremity. Emotional, physical, mental. No other animal has exhibited as great a threshold for suffering as has man, while still retaining the ability to survive. Of course, as I'm sure you're well aware, everyone has their _limits_. My purpose with _you_, Joker, is to test those limits, since out of all those I've observed…," he paused, smiling. "and I've been observing you for quite some time now, your threshold seems the deepest running. Most people these days aren't very used to suffering, you see, and sadly, all those I've thus far conducted my research on have proven… disappointing. The longest anyone's lasted before folding is two days. _Two_ days. Before they began begging and screaming, pleading for mercy. People you wouldn't think so easily broken. Hardened criminals. Murderers, mercenaries, members of gangs. Even a few Mafioso's. Many a former inmate of Blackgate Penitentiary. Hard men; _mean_ men. Not a single of which lasted past two days before giving in, sobbing, crying for me to stop. It's really quite extraordinary, actually, to see how quickly, how easily you can drive the defiance from a man. Simply apply the right kind of _pressure_... In the end, they all were willing to do anything, _anything_ I asked of them, if only I would stop. Some of those very men you met, those who attacked you on the street. They work for me now, do everything I tell them. Others, sadly, hadn't the physical strength to survive some of my… tests. But, of course, there's always casualties with these sorts of things."

He watched the Joker carefully a moment, who's mouth had pulled bizarrely in to what could only be described as a pleasant smile, eyes focused and alert as the affects of the sedative had by then worn away.

Again the doctor crouched to eye level with him.

"I'm hoping, of course, you prove yourself a little more resilient, a little more… true to your convictions." His eyes searched over the Joker's face.

And then he smiled, reaching forward suddenly, touching the tips of his fingers to the Joker's forehead, tracing the outline of the bruise there, sliding them in to the lunatic's hair and then down his cheek, in an almost caress.

"You really are an _extraordinary_ creature." He said softly.

The Joker didn't move, didn't attempt to pull away from the man's touch.

"There's no fear in your eyes." His hand moved down, to the Joker's jaw.

"No…" the Joker breathed in return. "But there's fear in yours."

The doctor halted, fingers stopping their exploration, eyes rising to the madman's own.

The Joker still smiled.

And then he spit, right in the older man's face, and Finius reared backwards, nearly falling over in his shock.

The Joker exploded with laughter, loud and unrestrained, his frame shaking with his mirth.

"Sir!" Laurence stepped towards his employer, arm outreached.

The doctor's hand came over his face, wiping the saliva from it fast and violent.

And his shock quick turned to anger.

"It's fine Laurence!" He spit, halting the assistant in his tracks, bringing his eyes back to the lunatic, still lost in his own hysterics.

"You little _bastard_!" Finius raged, backhanding the Joker hard across the mouth, splitting his lip and cutting his teeth along the inside of his cheek. Only the blow landing momentarily cut the madman's laughter, less then a second later it resuming, just as strong as before.

"Yu-heeheehee- you sh-should have se-seen your f-face g-_good_ Doctor F-Finius, hahaha…" He crowed, tongue darting out to lick the blood from his lip. "You were s-so sh-shocked! Hahaha!"

Dr. Finius' hands clenched to fists, glaring at the lunatic with hate filled eyes. He breathed deep, trying to calm himself.

Seconds later he was able to, standing straight, looking down at the Joker as his laughter began to slow in to sporadic giggles.

"Very well then…" the older man started, again folding his hands behind his back. "We'll start now. Bradley, bring that pot here, would you?"

The guard started, doing as he was told, coming up to stand behind the doctor, pot in hand.

"You noted, Joker, the sparseness of your surroundings."

The Joker still chuckled lightly, looking up at the doctor.

"There's reason for it." Finius went on. "I've found depriving people of modern day luxuries in itself can be enough to break certain individuals. It's difficult, when one grows accustomed to a thing, to have it suddenly taken from them. Even you, young man, are afforded the everyday amenities at Arkham, are you not? A bed to sleep on, a toilet bowel and sink to wash your hands in. As you dully noted, there aren't any of those things here."

He motioned the guard forward, taking the pot from his hands.

"_This_, Joker, is your bathroom." He said, holding it up for him to see.

The Joker said nothing, eyes not leaving the doctors face.

"Now, being bound against that wall as you are, you obviously can't get _up _to _use_ your bathroom, can you? No, of course not. Which is why, every two hours, I would have a group of my men check in on you, and if you're needing to relieve yourself, you have only to ask them, and they would undo your restraints and allow you to… use the facilities." He smiled. "However, due to your… belligerent and outright _rude_ behavior, I'm afraid that option's been closed to you. Unless, of course, you apologize. Say you're sorry for spitting in my face, and you'll be saved from soiling yourself."

The Joker stared at him a long moment, expression blank.

He blinked.

And then, suddenly, he began to chuckle, then giggle, his hysterics growing quickly to uproarious laughter.

Dr. Finius watched with renewed agitation, his jaw tightening.

"If you think I'm joking, I assure you, I am not." He said.

The Joker shook his head, still laughing.

"You have only to say you're sorry." The older man went on.

"… B-but I'm n-not s-sorry." The Joker gasped through his mirth.

The doctor's eyes narrowed, frustration growing.

"If you don't tell me you're sorry, I'll keep you chained to that wall, and you'll end up both urinating and defecating in your pants. Now come Joker, I'm sure your sense of self-dignity finds the notion abhorrent."

The Joker's head lifted from its lowered position, staring up at Finius, brow furrowing, still laughing.

"Sen-heehee, sense of s-self d-dignity?" He asked.

"Yes, self-dignity." The older man said. "I assume you know what that _is_ Joker."

"Heh… Oh, I, heehee, I know what it is. Certainly more so then _you_."

"Oh?" Finius questioned, brows rising.

And the Joker nodded.

"Dignity, dignity is nothing more then a notion of fantasy, more man-made rules of conduct, implemented as just another means of dissuading people from indulging their more base desires. And Dr. Finius, I'm disappointed, if you've really been studying me so long as you claim, you should know that indulgence of my desires is something I make a habit of, whether deemed socially appropriate or not. It's, heh, it's one of the reasons I've been diagnosed as suffering anti-social personality disorder. Questions of _dignity _play no part in whatever decisions I make. I won't apologize to you _sweetie_, because I'm not sorry, and because I don't _want _to."

Finius' lip curled, fingers tightening around the pot in his hands.

He hadn't anticipated the Joker to be quite so… supercilious.

He exhaled slowly, holding the pot out for his man to again take.

He once more folded his hands behind his back, looking down.

"Yes, well, if that's the attitude you wish to take…" he looked back up, staring hard at the Joker. "I'm certain, after a few days of being made to sit in your own urine and fecal matter, it will change."

The Joker stared back, head cocking to the side, grin widening.

"It won't." He said softly.

For a moment, the doctor said nothing. And then he turned.

"We'll see." He said, beginning back towards the cell door.

"Indeed we will." The Joker replied after him.

Finius froze for just a moment before again starting.

"Gentlemen." He said, reaching for the door's handle, and the other two men began after him.

"Oh Doctor Finius!" The Joker called suddenly.

The man stopped, fingers gripping to the door's handle.

He turned, looking back at the lunatic.

The Joker continued to smile back, and the older man's eyes went slightly wide as he watched a dark stain begin to spread out, across the front of the madman's pants.

The Joker's own eyes grew bright as he felt the warm liquid seep down over the inside of his leg.

"Whoops." He said flatly, never taking his gaze from the older man.

Dr. Finius' face twisted in disgust, hand gripping tighter along the door's handle.

For a long moment he stared, not moving, and then finally he turned away.

"Testing begins tomorrow." He said, pulling the door wide. "We'll see how long that vaunted will of yours lasts."

And the Joker began to laugh, the sound rising up and loud, lasting on several minutes, even after the cell door had closed, after the doctor and his men had left, and they no longer could hear him.

/

"It doesn't make any sense Alfred." Bruce said absently, almost more to himself, leaning back in his seat, fingers needing deep against his temple.

"The Joker's actions rarely ever do, Master Bruce." The butler replied calmly, still holding the silver food trey in his hands, waiting patiently for Bruce to notice he'd brought him his lunch.

"But he's never…" the crusader began. "he's never done _this _before. Never… _told me_ he was going to be somewhere and then not shown up."

"Yes, well, isn't it you Sir who always is telling me never to make assumptions where the Joker is concerned? That indeed it is a foolish course to try and predict what it is he'll do?"

Bruce felt his brow furrow, mouth pulling down at the corners.

It was true, he'd said all of that, and indeed, all of that was true.

But Alfred didn't understand.

In all the years he and the Joker had fought one another, never once had the lunatic promised to engage him some place and then failed in following through. The Joker practically _lived_ for his encounters with the vigilante. Any chance he had of drawing Bruce's attention, of meeting and "jousting" with him, as the madman so often put it, he would take.

And Bruce knew then, he knew in his _gut_, something had happened, something was _wrong_.

"You're concerned then Master Bruce." Alfred said, noticing the younger man's troubled expression.

The crusader glanced up at him, brow furrowed.

Concerned? Yes. Though he wasn't sure _why_.

There had been days when Bruce thought, to his dawning horror, of how much easier it would be, how much _better_, if the Joker were simply to die. If he weren't to survive through all those incidents he shouldn't have been able to survive through in the first place. The Joker was inexplicable, the very definition of _impossible_. He should have been dead a hundred times over by now.

Somehow, he wasn't.

The detective would grow angry with himself whenever these notions passed through his mind, disgusted for even entertaining the thoughts, as it occurred to him his doing so only leant weight to the Joker's theories of how very alike they were. The Joker himself had proclaimed his own existence as nothing more then an extension of nature's inevitable destruction of its own creations. He always said he merely was a reflection of nature's nature. Things born only to be destroyed. He would admit to the terribleness of his own being, how it was the cause of nothing but pain and misery.

But he would never call it wrong. He would never call it evil.

He would say to call it such was to call nature itself the same.

It was just the way of things, he would go on, and then say what he did was more real, more true then any of man's made laws and rules and ideas of wrong and right.

And sometimes Bruce couldn't help thinking maybe the Joker _was _right.

Sure, things would be better without him, but then, so too would things be better if nature hadn't designed for things to die, to suffer, to feel pain and tragedy and loss.

Sometimes it really did feel like they were all being played for fools.

And the Joker had only decided to play along back, trying to make everyone see how, this way, it was just more fun.

The Joker would tell Batman he knew these things as well as he himself, but simply refused to admit it, to give in to the knowledge of it.

When Bruce thought of how things would be easier, would be better for him and for everyone else if the Joker were simply to die, in those moments, the Joker's words seemed never to ring more true.

The Joker had shocked him when once he'd told Batman how very much he admired him.

It seemed contradictory, given how insistent the madman was in constantly reminding the crusader as to the meaninglessness of his mission, and trying to persuade him to give it up.

So Bruce had asked him why, remembering how disbelieving his voice had sounded, and the Joker had smiled, a smile which had looked bizarrely out of place on him, without any of its usual mania or cold indifference. It had been almost warm, almost… sweet.

And then he'd said, and Bruce could hear his voice now, word for word…

"Because you understand as well as I Batman, how terrible this all is. And yet, you so greatly desire for it to not be that, even in the knowledge nothing can ever, really be done to change it, you make the attempt regardless, knowing it will never come, but sacrificing yourself in the hope that it might. Belief against knowledge, effort in the face of that efforts uselessness. Even when it hurts. That's conviction my darling. You _wanting _to believe is something truer then pretending as though you already _do_."

And then he'd slipped away, disappeared, and Bruce hadn't seen him again for nearly four months.

That hadn't been unusual. The Joker often went away for long stretches, where and to do what, the crusader never knew.

But never had he not shown up when he said he would, when he'd _promised_ it Batman himself.

"I'll see you there Batsy." He heard his voice telling him breathlessly, saw the wind whipping his hair over his face. "I promise you."

And then he stepped off the roofs ledge, and Batman had screamed no, bolting forward, heart racing in his chest, fear of what he might see as he looked over the edge, relief when he saw nothing. And then denial of those feelings as he muttered to himself "crazy bastard."

He thought about the Joker dying sometimes, about how it might make things easier, maybe even better.

But not right.

It wouldn't make them right.

The Joker hadn't shown up when he said he would.

He hadn't been there.

And Alfred was right.

He was concerned.

But this anxiety told Bruce it wasn't caused by any plans the Joker might have hatched. It sat too deep, too personal.

Like fear of loss.

The Joker hadn't been there.

And Bruce knew something was wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

It had been nearly 24 hours by the time they returned, and in that time, the Joker had barely shifted, sitting nearly stark still, chained back against the wall, staring ahead.

He hadn't slept, but then, he never could, not really. The closest he ever seemed to come to such an activity was dozing, and always he would be snapped back to consciousness at the smallest of sounds.

Like before, Dr. Finius only entered the cell behind, this time, a group of five men, all similar to the nightclub bouncer from the previous night, similarly built, similarly dressed. They were carrying buckets.

And then there was the doctors assistant, Laurence.

The Joker smirked at the thought of the name. Laurence. Dr. Finius and Laurence, like something straight out of 'The Bride of Frankenstein'. Mad scientist and his faithful man-servant.

The large men stood in a uniformed line, off o the left, Laurence taking up the right side, allowing Dr. Finius through the middle.

He approached the Joker, eyes fixed on the madman, and the Joker stared back.

The doctor's face was twisted in a frown, seeing the Joker's soaked through pants and the puddle of liquid, seeping out from beneath where he sat.

During the night and all through the day, whenever the sensation to relieve himself had come upon him, the Joker had simply let it go, without hesitation, and so he now sat in a pool of his own urine.

"_Disgusting_." Dr. Finius hissed, his expression reflecting the sentiment.

A smile spread over the Joker's face.

"But doc! It's a natural _process_. A simple fact of living. What's that they say? When you gotta go, you gotta go!" And he laughed.

The older man watched him with un-amused eyes.

And when the Joker's laughter had finally quieted down, he spoke.

"Are you ready to apologize yet?" He asked.

And the Joker assumed an expression of puzzlement.

"Apologize?" He asked. "For what?"

"I think you know very well _what_ Joker." Finius answered.

"Haven't a clue darling."

The doctor glared at him a moment, clear agitation in his eyes, and then he sighed, looking down.

"Very well, if that's the attitude you're choosing to adopt…"

He turned towards the line of men to the left.

"Clean him up." He ordered. "And then bring him to the lab."

The men nodded, and Dr. Finius turned to leave the cell.

Laurence began to follow, and the doctor looked to him, shaking his head.

"Make sure they don't fumble it." He said, and Laurence stopped, staring a moment before too giving a nod.

"Yes Sir." He answered.

He watched then as the doctor left through the door before turning back towards the Joker, who was staring straight at him, his expression oddly flat.

Laurence felt a prickling sensation at the tips of his fingers, trying to ignore it.

The Joker was something to behold.

One might describe his appearance as wholly bizarre. Skin as white as porcelain, uniform, hair a green so deep it almost appeared black, pale green eyes which seemed almost to glow in their unnerving clarity.

He didn't seem _real_.

When they'd been undressing him, while he still was unconscious, Laurence hadn't been able to hide the shock from his face at the innumerable scars, running over the entire length of the lunatic's body. One wondered at the marvel of his still being alive.

The Joker was painfully thin, the slightness of his frame accentuated by his great height, the length of his limbs and torso seeming to stretch endlessly on. He appeared emaciated, and the assistant didn't think, studying him, that he ate well, or even ate at all. He was clearly malnourished.

There had been great expanses of gnarled scar tissue, running across his front, over his abdomen and chest, and to his back, bullet and knife wounds, burn marks.

There were clear signs of the Joker having been tortured, lash marks overlapping across his back, several of the burn marks looking as though they'd been caused by cigarettes to the skin, or matches maybe. And scars in which Laurence couldn't identify the weapon to have caused them, strangely shaped, zigzagging or expanding out in starbursts and other nameless patterns.

It worried the assistant, the damage the madman had sustained, and the fact he was still here, still as reckless and vibrant as ever. Others had tried to break him, very obviously, had had him in disadvantaged positions, as now he was. But still, the Joker was here, and those who'd gone after him…

Laurence had been against this idea from the start, though he hadn't dared say so.

This was dangerous business. Not at all the same as pulling some nameless mug off the street and letting the doctor have his fun. They were playing with fire now. From everything the assistant had heard of the Joker, an atomic one.

"You heard the doctor." Laurence started, looking away from the Joker. "Wipe him down and then we move him."

The men complied, closing in on the lunatic, who kept his eyes trained on the assistant a long moment before abruptly shifting his attention to the approaching guards.

He smiled at them, the expression innocent, boyish.

The largest of the lot bent down, and the Joker could see confidence in his eyes, could see he thought little of him.

The guard produced a set of keys from his pants pocket, beginning to work at the lock of the Joker's restraints, and the Joker's grin widened.

"You're a handsome fellow." He said, and his voice was bright, contrasting bizarrely with the bloodshot white of his eyes. "Got a girlfriend, big boy?"

The man glanced up at him, his lip curling in disgust.

"Shut up faggot!" He spit.

And the Joker laughed, uproariously loud.

The guard glared at him a moment, teeth grinding together in annoyance before he resumed the task of undoing the lunatic's restraints.

"You stink of insecurity." The Joker continued, staring the thug right in the face, just as the strip of metal was pulled from his wrists.

And the man's face contorted in rage.

"You little…" he started, not thinking as he reached out to grab the Joker by the throat.

And like lightening, the Joker shifted forward, ramming the butt of his palm up, hard in to the man's nose, and it shattered, exploding in to blood, the man instantly falling backwards, collapsing on to his back.

The Joker's laughter rose, watching the downed guard roll about in agony on the ground before him, moaning loudly, pawing dazedly at his face. And the Joker didn't move. The men around were already closing the distance, rushing to subdue him. A club was raked suddenly across his temple, knocking him to his side, his head spinning from the blow, and in the next instant he was being hauled up and shoved back down, on to his stomach, his hands yanked viciously behind his back, his wrists cuffed together.

Again he began to laugh as his pants were yanked down and off.

"Fuckin' disgusting freak…" one of the men muttered.

"Just get him cleaned up." Laurence directed, his heart thrumming heavy in his chest as he eyed the still lawling guard.

The Joker had moved so fast, so unexpectedly…

If there hadn't been so many men in the room, he would have escaped. The assistant frowned. It seemed almost as though he could have escaped anyway, if he wanted to…

But no, no, that was absurd. He was unarmed, and surrounded, and his having stayed still was indication enough that he knew it too. Laurence was letting his weariness of the clown get the better of him, thinking of him as some sort of super-human being almost. He had to remember they were dealing with just a man.

His mind wondered though… If the Joker had known there was no hope of escape, why had he attacked that guard? Just for the hell of it? Just because?

There was no real purpose to it, nothing to be gained but a group of already violent men growing angry…

The Joker was unstable, acting without reason, acting at his own peril…

Laurence was snapped from his thoughts as the lunatic's laughter filled his ears, and he turned back to see two of the men pinning him down, pressing his shoulders to the ground as two others dumped buckets of icy water across his exposed lower half, washing away the urine.

"Flip him." One of them said. And the Joker was pushed roughly on to his back, still giggling hysterically as the two men grabbed more buckets of water, flinging it across him.

If the freezing liquid at all bothered the madman, he didn't show it, not even flinching as it soaked his bare skin.

Finally, the Joker's pants were pulled back up and he was hauled to his feet.

Laurence nodded at the guards, and watched as they pushed the Joker from behind, and the madman stumbled forward, nearly losing his footing.

"Move it clown." One of the spit.

The Joker continued to laugh, his eyes lifting to the assistant.

"Enjoy the show?" He asked with a grin, and Laurence said nothing, only watching as again one of the men pushed the lunatic towards the door.

The man with the broken nose was just starting to get to his feet, just beginning to regain his composure. Laurence saw him move his eyes to the Joker, face twisted in rage as blood poured in thick rivulets from his nose.

"I… I'll kill you!" He cried, stumbling suddenly towards the lunatic.

"Rogers!" Laurence yelled. And the guard halted, gaze turning towards the assistant.

"Stop it." Laurence said, his voice hard. "He isn't _yours_ to deal with."

The fury didn't leave the man's face, but he went still, not moving, hands lowered to his sides, clenched to fists.

"Hoo, hoo, hoo… you hear _that_ big boy?" The Joker mocked, staring at the enraged man. "I'm not _yours _to deal with. I'll bet you're just _broken _with disappointment." He smiled wide.

He could see Rogers entire frame go rigid, could see he was nearly vibrating with the desire to lunge at him, and the Joker only chuckled at the sight.

"Calm down Rogers." Laurence spoke, seeing the danger. "Dr. Finius will make sure he pays for your grievance." He nodded towards the Joker.

The man's face was tight with anger, but a moment later, and he seemed to relax, and he gave a nod, stepping back.

"Tsk, tsk…" the Joker frowned. "And I was so looking forward to your hands on me, sweetness."

Rogers lip curled in hatred.

"You won't be laughin' soon freak." He said.

And the Joker smiled.

"That's what they all say."

Laurence frowned.

"Hurry it up." He said. "The doctor is waiting."

The men complied, grabbing the material of the Joker's shirt and pushing him forward.

The lunatic turned, staring at the assistant then, a wide grin adorning his face. And just before he was pushed through the door, he called out…

"Be seeing you soon!"

The discomfort returned.

The Joker just didn't know, didn't understand…

Laurence knew…

Once the doctor began his experiments, it wouldn't be long…

Wouldn't be long before the Joker's laughter turned to screams.

It didn't matter how extreme the lunatic was.

Everyone had their limits… everyone.

And it was Dr. Finius' business to find those limits out.

The Joker would be no exception.

He just didn't yet realize it.

He just had to be shown.

Laurence started, moving towards the cell's exit, following the men out, following as they led their captive towards the lab, where the doctor waited, ready with his machines, with the tools to help him achieve his goals.

/

"Comfortable?" Dr. Finius asked, hands folded behind his back, observing as his men stepped back.

They'd strapped the Joker down, flat on his back against a medical table after having removed his cuffs, restraining him with straps over his wrists and ankles, another two over his chest and stomach. One more for good measured across his forehead.

The Joker grinned.

"Feels like home." He answered.

They'd removed his shirt, and another group of men were now placing patches across his chest, hooked to a heart rate monitor.

The doctors eyes scanned over the Joker's naked torso, taking in the scarring across his chest and abdomen.

"Yes…" he began. "You're quite used to this sort of thing, aren't you? I've heard they go to great lengths to keep you restrained while in Arkham. State of the art straightjackets, manacles, heavy doses of sedatives. Your exposure to those chemical toxins rendered you resistant to most drugs, did it not?"

"Heh. If you wanna talk _chemistry _Doc…" the Joker started. "I can go all day. I'm pretty good at the stuff."

"Yes, so I've heard. Quite _brilliant_ in _both_ the fields of chemical and bio-genetic engineering, in fact. Your grasp of these subjects, I imagine, is the cause of quite a bit of envy in those working the science departments of WayneTech and LexCorp."

The Joker chuckled.

"Please Sir, you flatter me. I don't wish to brag. Mine is a humble gratitude for the gifts I've been lucky enough to receive." And he laughed harder.

Dr. Finius regarded him with a bored expression, saying nothing, and soon his men had finished. He waved a hand, motioning them out of the room, until only he, Laurence and the Joker remained.

He stepped towards the bound man, looking down directly at him.

Without a word, Laurence went to the heart rate monitor, switching it on.

The Joker's heartbeat was immediately picked up, the machine beeping calmly, reflecting the madman's own seeming tranquility.

The doctors eyes narrowed as the Joker looked up at him, still smiling.

"This isn't like Arkham though Joker." He started. "You see, Arkham is a hospital, and though I'm certain the goings on there are less then always above board, the overall intention is to _treat_ its patients. This is a laboratory Joker, a place of scientific _experiment_. The goal isn't to fix any perceived problems, but to test the limits of your threshold, to see how far we can take you before you _snap_."

The Joker's brow furrowed, still staring up at the doctor.

"Hmmm, well, we'll have to disagree on the objectives of the Arkham employed Doc. You don't last long in a place like that when sporting pure intentions. Believe me, the goal isn't to cure, it's to hide from the falsity of their own beliefs. Easier to call us all mad and lock us away in the loony bin then admit to validation in our words and actions and punish us thus accordingly. Heehee, not to say there aren't some real _crazies _in there. Have you met Jarvis Tetch? The guy thinks Alice in Wonderland is _real_. Kidnaps little blonde girls so he can reenact the stories tea party, hahaha!"

"Did you hear anything I just said?" Dr. Finius asked after a moment. "Perhaps I didn't speak clearly enough. We're going to _torture _you young man. And I assure you, it will be decidedly worse then anything you've experienced before."

Again the Joker began to chuckle. 

"You sound quite _sure_." He answered.

Laurence watched the conversation with growing fascination.

The doctor wasn't lying, whatever the Joker had been through, and very obviously, just to look at his body, he'd been through a lot, it was likely nothing compared to what Finius had planned.

Never in all his years had the assistant seen anyone quite so coldly sadistic as his current employer, and he'd worked for a number of very _bad_ men. But what the doctor did to his victims… it sent a cold chill running through Laurence's bones, the mere thought of it.

If the doctor wasn't so wealthy, and didn't pay so ridiculously well, he doubted he would have the stomach to stick around.

Though another benefit working for Finius, thought Laurence, was that, while indisputably cruel, the doctor was far from insane, like so many of Gotham's "super-villains", as the press had so affectionately deemed them, like the man they now had strapped down against a medical table.

He was absolutely sane, perhaps possessing the most rational, calculating mind the assistant had ever come across, and also one of the most intelligent. Everything he did, he did for the advancement of his research, and he freely admitted to realizing how very brutal it all was, how terrible.

"But sacrifices must be made in order to discover new truths my boy." The doctor had once said to him. "I know what I do to be unkind, to be cruel, even _wrong_, but I'm a firm believer in the ends justifying the means."

The fact he realized what he was doing was "wrong" was what made Dr. Finius so terrifying to begin with. He _knew_ it was wrong, and he didn't _care_. He seemed almost to relish in the fact even.

Not like the Joker… the Joker wasn't well. Laurence knew this from how closely he'd studied the lunatic.

The Joker had been admitted to Arkham Asylum shortly after being apprehended for the first time when it was determined he couldn't differentiate between right and wrong because he couldn't accept right and wrong as actually _existing_. He couldn't accept them as anything beyond man-made notions, beyond just _words_; was unable to grasp the idea of them as substantive concepts, as holding any truth or weight. He truly believed morality, good and bad, right and wrong, he truly believed those things to be as false as any children's fairytale, as completely without merit, and he applied that belief to not only his actions, but the way he lived his life, the way he treated himself even.

The Joker didn't understand like Dr. Finius that what he did was wrong. He did the things he did precisely to try and show people they _weren't_.

He didn't _claim_ insanity. He _was _insane.

"Oh, I am." Laurence was pulled from his thoughts as the doctor answered the Joker. "I'm not ignorant to the things you've survived Joker. Those scars on your body tell the tale of a man who's seen his fair share of violence. But…"

And suddenly he leaned closer, until he was just inches from the Joker's face.

"You're only a man Joker, and every man has his limits. I intend to find your out."

The Joker laughed.

"For a man who's done his research Doc, you seem to have missed a pretty crucial piece of information about me. The one thing everyone seems to know."

"Oh?" Dr. Finius stood straight, his brows raised in expectancy of further explanation.

"I've got no limits doll." The Joker answered. "Limits are _rules_, and rules don't really fit, not where I'm concerned. They make things so much less… _interesting_."

Dr. Finius only smiled in return.

"Well, lets put that proclamation to the test then, shall we?"

He held a hand out.

"Laurence?" He began, waiting patiently for the assistant to provide him with the tool he was looking for.

Laurence didn't hesitate, picking it up off a nearby table, having it in the doctors outstretched fingers within seconds.

Dr. Finius smiled, bringing the tool above the Joker's line of sight for him to see.

A pair of medical pliers.

The Joker looked bored.

"Hmph. Pliers?" He asked. "That's about as original as your dungeon Doc. Can't say I'm too impressed."

"Oh but just _wait _Joker. You don't yet know what I'm going to _do_."

Laurence glanced at the heart rate monitor. The pace hadn't at all changed, no shift in the Joker's state, no indication of his being nervous. It surprised him, despite the Joker's reputation. Dr. Finius had also shot a glance the monitors way, observing the same.

"And just what _are _you doing to do Doc?" The Joker asked, his tone heavy with disinterest.

The doctor brought his eyes back to his captive.

At once he reached out, taking hold of the Joker's left hand, grabbing hold of his fingers.

"How fascinating." He began. "The color of your fingernails, the same as your hair."

"Well I still like my nail polish." The lunatic went on, apparently unfazed. "A little contrast is important, I think."

The doctor frowned.

"Well you won't have to worry about that after tonight." He said. "Have you ever have your nails _removed _Joker?"

Both Finius and Laurence watched for some indication in the Joker's expression of fear, but none came, his face remaining flat, the heart rate monitor continuing in its steady and even reading.

"Removed?" The Joker asked. "Hmm… can't say I've ever experienced such, no." His voice was as flippant and easy as ever.

"It hurts a _lot_." The doctor said, and without further warning, he suddenly tightened his grip on the Joker's fingers, bringing the pliers up, pinching the end of the nail on his ring finger and tearing, ripping it clean off.

The Joker's face lined in pain, his brow furrowing heavily, stress lines creasing in his forehead, tears springing inadvertently to his eyes.

"Ooo, ahhh! Ooo, hoo, hoo! That _hurt_!" He laughed.

And it did, the tip of his finger left raw and bleeding, the air hitting the exposed skin causing it to sting like fire, worse where it had been torn at the cuticle.

Dr. Finius brought the torn nail close to his face, still held between the nose of the pliers. He examined it a moment, before moving it close to the Joker's own face, letting him see it.

"I'll bet it did Joker." He said.

He masked his agitation at the Joker having not screamed well.

"Of course, that was just _one _nail." He continued. "I promise, your discomfort will grow exponentially worse should I remove the other nineteen, toes included."

The Joker grinned at him, face still lined in the stress of pain. The heart rate monitor picked up a slight increase.

"Oh, I c… can _imagine_." The madman answered, chuckling lightly.

"But…" the doctor went on, ignoring the Joker's seeming lack of concern. "If you apologize for having spit in my face last night, well, perhaps I'll leave the rest of your nails in tact."

"Oh, b-back to that then, are we?" The Joker asked, still smiling. "I told you already Doc, how can I apologize when I'm n-not sorry? I really don't like to be dishonest when it comes to those sorts of things."

Without another word, Dr. Finius again grabbed hold of the Joker's left hand, this time ripping his pinkie nail off.

And again the Joker's face lined in pain, more tears forming in his eyes.

"Ahh, _Dooooc_…" he half giggled, half wheezed. "Y-you're so _irritable_!"

Again, Dr. Finius took hold of his hand, tearing out the nail of his index finger.

And again the Joker continued to laugh, interspersed by harsh wheezing. 

"I can continue…" the doctor warned.

"S-so can I." The Joker said back, a strained grin adorning his features.

Dr. Finius' face twisted in displeasure.

"Have it your way then Joker." He answered. "I promise you'll regret it by morning."

"Heehee…" the Joker giggled. "I live wi… without regret my d-dear."

Laurence looked away, his eyes focusing on the heart rate monitor.

It never rose more then a few points in pace, and the Joker never screamed, even as the nails were torn from, first, his hands, and then his feet, the only sound that of his harsher breathing, interlaced with broken up laughter, and only the occasional grunt of discomfort.

The assistant was startled then when suddenly Dr. Finius brushed past him, moving towards the labs exit.

"Bring him back to his cell." He said, before disappearing through the door.

Laurence blinked, looking after him a moment before turning back towards the Joker, who lay still against the table, save for his heavy breathing and sporadic giggles shaking his thin frame.

Blood ran down, over his forearms, the white of his hands and feet nearly covered in red as it poured from the exposed underside of his nails.

Laurence knew it must have burnt like acid, the labs cold air stinging against the raw skin.

But the Joker didn't seem to care, barely seemed to notice at all, his mirth continuing, even as his restrains were undone and he was dragged from the table and carried out of the room.

Laurence had to look away again as the madman was moved past, feeling suddenly nauseous as he glimpsed up close the state of the Joker's hands and feet.

He would be left that way, the assistant knew, without aid, the exposed skin left to scab over on its own.

Dr. Finius never allowed any of his victims help.

When they'd taken him from the room, the Joker's laughter still echoing in from down the hall, Laurence looked back to the table the madman had been strapped to, drops of blood littered against its cold, stainless steel surface. Next to the table was a bucket, and the assistant could see from here, inside that bucket, all of the Joker's nails had been dropped, green and red… almost like the colors of Christmas.

/

**Hope you enjoyed the chapter guys and please remember to leaver reviews!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4:**

They'd manacled him against the wall again and then left, not bothering to replace his shirt.

It was colder in here then in the lab even, and blood poured in thick rivulets down his arms, on to his naked torso.

The pain was agonizing, radiating up from the tips of his fingers and toes, in to his arms and legs.

But he'd been in this kind of pain before, been in _worse_, and it didn't matter.

He felt nauseous still, and lightheaded, and he knew it was likely from the severity of the injury. His body was telling him to go in to shock, but his brain wouldn't allow it. The Joker wasn't much one for that sort of thing.

He glanced up at the door.

The night club bouncers must have put him back here about twenty minutes ago, and no one else had come through since.

He licked his lips. They were dry and cracked, and he could taste blood on the tip of his tongue.

He wondered how long it would take for his nails to grow back.

He wouldn't want Batsy to see him without nails. He didn't imagine it looked very sharp.

His head turned, taking in his right hand, blood dripping off it, down his arm, on to the floor. It was hard to tell what it looked like, really, covered so thickly in red.

He curled his hands in to fists, squeezing them together as hard as he could, and the pain flared, blood drizzling out from his closed palms more quickly.

He giggled at the sight.

And then a wave of dizziness hit him.

"Uh oh." He laughed, his head drooping down.

For a few moments he sat like that, before his eyes lifted, and he took in his feet, rendered the same as he hands, covered in red.

Batman came back to his thoughts, and he wondered what the vigilante was doing.

"Probably out b-busting someone's keaster." He said quietly to himself, chuckling at the thought.

His hands were growing numb again, along with his arms, stiffness settling deep in to his bones at being made to sit in the same position for so long. His neck hurt too.

But he barely noticed.

"Damn it Bats, you better not be having fun without me." He muttered. "That would just be s… so unnatural."

His head hung forward, his lids blinking rapidly as his eyes focused on a nondescript spot on the floor ahead of him. He felt suddenly very tired, exhaustion seeping to his insides. His vision began to blur. It had been nearly a week since he last slept, and now with the trauma he'd just sustained, it was catching up to him.

It would be only a minute more before darkness consumed him, and he was out, restless dreams fast filling his mind.

/

Six days… it had been six days since the Joker disappeared. And Batman hadn't seen a sign of him since.

It wasn't merely unusual. It was unprecedented.

The Joker was known to vanish for days, weeks, even months at a time. He would break free from Arkham and then just slip away in to the night, undetected, not appearing again until he so determined.

But any time such had occurred, it had been without contact. The Joker hadn't ever bothered engaging Batman then, hadn't committed any crimes, hadn't made any public appearance. He'd simply disappeared, without word.

Now wasn't the case.

He and Batman had been engaged the last, several weeks in a back and forth battle, the madman leading the vigilante on from one over the top and theatrical exploit to another. Several times, when Bruce had been sure he had the Joker cornered, the clown had somehow slipped away. Only once had he almost, _really _caught him, when the lunatic had decided on an apparent whim to stop by a flower shop and "browse".

It had been well past midnight. Apparently, the Joker had broken in to the place, not bothering with disabling the alarm.

Batman's radar had picked up the signal, and initially, he remembered, he was going to ignore it, not thinking the robbery of a flower store was very important when he was out looking for the _Joker_.

But something had struck him as unusual. Of all the places to break in to in this city, and at such a late hour, a flower shop seemed unlikely and more then a little eccentric. Common robbers wouldn't choose such a locale, he hadn't thought. Not enough money, and not when there was convenience stores and the like to be ripped off. So it had occurred to him it had to be someone who wasn't interested in cash. He'd have guessed Poison Ivey, at first, but she was locked up in Arkham at the moment, and there hadn't been any reports of her escape. He supposed it could have been a vagrant, looking for a place to sleep. But that seemed like an unnecessarily complicated way for such a person to go about finding shelter. Maybe some kids, thinking it funny to throw a rock through the front glass.

Either way, he'd decided it strange enough to warrant a look.

When he'd pulled up, there hadn't been any cops. Apparently, they'd had the same reaction, not thinking the breaking in of a flower shop very important.

Walking up to the front door, he'd noticed the glass had been broken, the lock undone from the inside by reaching through the hole.

He'd only observed the method of entry a moment before reaching out, turning the handle and stepping inside.

_It was dark, no lights in the place having been turned on. And it was immediately his cowls enhanced hearing had picked up the sound of rustling paper, and then of light snipping, someone cutting through something._

_He stepped forward cautiously, scanning the small space. He could see no one, so either the sound was coming from behind the counter or the shop's back room._

_Glancing over the front desks edge, he saw no one, and that's when he noticed the light, peaking out from beneath the crack of the back rooms door._

_Carefully he stepped to it, making certain he was quiet, the sounds from behind growing more distinct. _

_He reached out, resting his hand on the doors knob, waiting a moment before stepping aside and pushing it open. It swung wide and Bruce stood unmoving several, long seconds, anticipating an attack._

_None came, until finally he felt it was safe enough to glance in to the room, where he saw the Joker, sitting at one of the counters. In front of him was a pile of yellow roses, the stems of which he was cutting with a pair of scissors. He wasn't looking up, but Batman wasn't fool enough to think the madman didn't now know he was there._

_He stepped in to the room, forgoing any further hope of stealth._

"_Joker!" He snapped sharply, but the clown still didn't look up, continuing in his task._

_The crusader moved closer, watching him carefully. _

_He was aware this may have been some sort of trap, though he could see nothing to indicate such. _

_He noticed the Joker wearing one of the roses in the lapel of his jacket._

_A moment later, and the lunatic looked up at him, grinning._

"_Hi there pumpkin pie!" He said cheerily. "Here, this is for you!" _

_The Joker reached out a long, bony hand, holding a trimmed, yellow rose between his thin fingers. _

_Batman's face remained stoic, keeping his eyes on the madman's own._

"_This end's tonight Joker." He said. "I'm taking you back to Arkham."_

_The Joker huffed, his outstretched hand falling, the smile going from his lips._

"_Where's the romance Bats?" He asked. "Here I am, offering a token of my friendship, and you just have to ruin it with your sour mood." He tsked, shaking his head. "You're not very _nice_, you know that?"_

_Bruce frowned, hating how the clown managed to make himself sound truly hurt. If he didn't know any better, he'd have thought the emotion genuine. _

"_And anyway…" the Joker continued. "what are you doing here?" He looked down at the still held rose, twirling it between his thumb and index finger, now frowning. "I haven't done anything tonight. I thought I might take the day off, relax a little, smell the…" he looked up, smiling again. "roses." _

"_You've been on a tear Joker." Batman hissed. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way, it's up to you."_

_Bruce knew this was a useless endeavor, trying to reason with the lunatic._

_The Joker never chose the "easy" way. He always had to make things hard. It seemed, sometimes, he most had to make things hard on _himself_._

_The Joker smiled warmly back now._

"_Now dear, you and I both know the former isn't an option. What fun is there to be had in simple surrender?"_

"_There's no where to go Joker." Batman tried, seeing already this was likely going to turn physical. "You're just going to get hurt."_

_Even more useless. The Joker didn't care. Bruce knew that._

_He wondered why he even tried._

"_Batsy! You surprise me! An eternal optimist such as yourself, claiming there to be no way out? For _shame_." He laughed. "But in all seriousness, did you not notice the back door? It even says 'Exit' above its top!"_

_He gestured to behind him._

_But Batman only shook his head._

"_I'd be on you before you could ever reach it." He said, a hint of condensation in his voice._

"_Ah, but see, that's no guarantee you'll _stop_ me." The Joker grinned._

_For a moment, the two men held each others gaze, neither moving. Batman could feel himself tense, anticipating the move. _

_And then the Joker launched, turning and running for the door._

_Batman bolted after him, leaping over the work desk and tackling him from behind, bringing him down swiftly._

_The Joker writhed in his grasp, and Batman responded by burying a knee, deep in to his back, pinning him down as he yanked one of the clown's arms back, reaching with his free hand for a set of cuffs from his belt._

_He didn't even see the lunatic flick his wrist, or the blade which had slid out from his sleeve, in to his palm._

_A moment later, and the crusader felt the flare of red hot pain as it shot up his arm, and he looked down to find the blade, buried halfway to the hilt in his forearm. _

"_Sonofa…" he hissed, anger exploding within him._

_He reached for it, distracted, and as the Joker felt him shift down, he rammed his head back, as hard as he could, right in to Batman's mouth._

_The vigilante bit down hard on his own tongue, the immediate taste of blood filling his mouth, his hold on the madman loosening momentarily as he fell away, startled and in pain. _

_And that was all it took._

_The Joker twisted out from under him, getting to his feet with lightening quickness._

"_Heehee, almost had me there darling dear!" He called out as he tore open the back exit, bolting out in to the alleyway. _

_Batman growled in frustration, annoyed at having let the Joker go and the pain now throbbing in his lip and tongue. _

_In one, swift motion, he got to his feet, tearing after the lunatic, determined to make him pay for that._

But when he'd reached the outside, Bruce recalled, the Joker had been no where in sight.

He still didn't know how the clown managed to move so damn fast.

He'd searched for him for the better part of the rest of the night, but had found nothing. Wherever the Joker had disappeared to that night, he'd done so in a matter of seconds.

That had been two weeks before the clown had failed to show up to where he promised the crusader he would.

He and the Joker had encountered each other three times in that two week period, and the last he'd seen him, just before he'd again slipped away, the madman had said …

"_I'll see you tomorrow night, downtown atop the Essex building. 2 AM. Don't be late sweetheart_!"

Bruce had waited until five in the morning for the Joker to show up, though he didn't know why. He'd admonished himself afterwards, realizing he could have spent those three hours out in the city, doing his rounds. But when the madman had failed to show at the time he'd promised, a bizarre kind of anxiety had risen up in the crusader.

He'd told himself he stuck around because it was an opportunity to nab the Joker and he couldn't risk losing it.

But by three, he'd already known something was wrong, and it had been foolish hope which kept him there any longer. Hope, he still told himself, of finally getting the madman behind bars after his being loose on the streets the last, several months.

Though somehow it felt more like denial.

The Joker had never failed to show up any place which he'd previously promised too.

And now that it had been nearly a week since he'd last seen or heard from him, that same anxiety returned.

It was just concern, Bruce reasoned, fear that the Joker had gone underground to work on something big and would emerge soon enough to execute some catastrophic plan of his.

That's all it was.

But he had to _find _him. That much he knew.

Arkham, he thought.

Maybe the inmates there had heard something, and if they had, he would get it. Loath as they were to speak to Batman, he had ways of making even the most stubborn among them talk.

Every one but the Joker.

Whenever Bruce had managed to glean information from the madman, it had only ever been with the Joker's desire to give it.

He was impossible to persuade, impossible to force in to going against what he actually wanted.

And it had long been what the crusader considered most dangerous about the clown.

The fact he was beyond intimidation, beyond threat.

He shook his head from the thought.

He didn't have time for this.

Each day that past without sign from the Joker, the vigilante grew more nervous.

All that mattered now was finding him, and Arkham was the place he would start.

/

The staff hadn't even bothered questioning Batman as to the reason for his visit. He'd informed them only that he needed to speak with the patients in the lower, maximum security ward, and they'd granted him immediate access, as always.

And he now found himself standing in front of Jonathan Crane's cell, the former psychiatrist staring back at him with a curled lip, arms folded over his chest.

"What is it you _want_, Batman?" He asked, clear agitation in his voice.

The detective looked at him hard.

"The Joker's gone missing."

The Scarecrow rolled his eyes.

"Oh, what a shame." He answered, voice laced with sarcasm. "Remind me again why I should _care_?"

"Because if something happened to _him_…" Batman stepped closer to the glass. "What's to keep the same from happening to _you_?"

Jonathan scoffed, looking away.

"That's absurd. I would never allo…"

"Let's not pretend you're anywhere _near_ the Joker's league Crane." Batman cut him short. "He's a lot _tougher_ then you." He smiled wryly then. "And who would know better then me? Last I recall, you were begging me not to hurt you, giving up the names of your suppliers and men. I've _never_ heard the Joker do that."

Actual embarrassment flashed across the former psychiatrists features, remembering the last time he'd been free of this hell hole they called an asylum. Batman had tracked him down only three days later, then proceeded to humiliate him, getting him in to one of those… Eastern martial arts holds, applying some kind of pressure to the nerve clusters in his elbow. The pain had been excruciating, Jonathan recalled, and he'd given in to the Bat's demands in a matter of seconds.

He wasn't about to admit it, but he knew the vigilante was right.

The Joker was uncannily tough, a _bastard_ though he was.

He'd seen the orderlies in this place beat the clown to a bloody pulp, and through the whole thing, the lunatic had only laughed, insulting the men all the while, _purposefully _making them angry, as though he'd wanted them to beat him _harder_.

And they had, and the Joker had only laughed louder with it.

He turned back to the detective, deciding it would be best to change the subject.

"And what makes you think I would have any clue where that deranged fool is?" He asked coldly. "I make no plans with him."

"You did once." Batman reminded him.

"Well not anymore!" The Scarecrow spit angrily, further humiliation creeping up on him as he remembered how that particular venture had ended, what that son of a bitch had _done_ to him. "The Joker's too _unstable_ to work with. And nothing but a buffoon. If something's happened to him, I say good riddance."

Batman unexpectedly felt a shot of disgust, his fists curling tight at his sides.

He didn't know why.

Hearing Crane talk about the Joker in so derogatory a manner seemed suddenly… _wrong_. It _felt _wrong.

Like the Joker didn't deserve to be spoken of like that. Like he deserved more respect.

But it made no sense, for him to feel this way.

The Joker was disgusting. The most depraved and vicious and most dangerous single man Bruce had ever encountered. He _hated_ the Joker.

But then why the hell was he searching for him with the drive of desperation? Why did he have this sense of _urgency_?

He shouldn't give a damn what happened to the lunatic, just as Crane so clearly did not.

He tried brushing the feelings aside, dismissing them once more as nothing but his self-appointed duty to protect people's lives, no matter who they were.

"The Joker has a lot of enemies." He continued in his interrogation. "Maybe you've heard something. Someone talking about wanting to take him out?"

"I've heard nothing!" The Scarecrow snapped. "You said it yourself, _detective_. The Joker is very _dangerous_. But I don't have to tell you. No one in here's fool enough to try their hand at him. No one but those Neanderthal orderlies, and they're too dumb, not to mention too _cowardly_ to want to _kill_ anybody. They're content getting their few licks in and that, I'm afraid, encompasses the extent of their aspirations."

Several seconds of silence past between the two of them then, Batman glaring at the former psychiatrist, his mouth set in to a thin, angry line.

Until finally Jonathan turned away.

"If something's happened to the clown…" he went on. "You'd be better served looking elsewhere. If anyone were to go after him… it would have to be someone either very _stupid_…" he looked over his shoulder at the crusader. "or someone very _smart_." He smiled. "Either way, if it's true, let's hope that by now they've killed the insufferable twit. It could only be a good thing, having him extinguished from the world."

The same disgust returned, and Bruce suddenly wished he could hit the Scarecrow. Knock all his teeth right out of his head and wipe that smug grin from his face.

But he could tell the former psychiatrist was telling the truth. He didn't know anything, and he doubted anyone else here did either.

But he had to try, he had to know…

He stared back at Jonathan a moment longer, making clear his displeasure as his mouth pulled in to a frown.

And without another word, he turned, walking away from the cell, moving to the next, knowing he was unlikely to find anything, but hoping just the same.

/

**Please leave reviews guys and thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5:**

He landed hard against his side, the momentum rolling him half on to his back, face pressed against the cold concrete as pain shot like fire through his jaw. Blood smeared across his teeth, pouring thick down his throat as it flowed from the inside of his cheeks and out his cut lips and nose. He felt nauseous from the taste, the dizziness from the blow fast making it worse.

He forced himself over, fully on to his back now, soundless laughter rising up from him.

"Whoo, hoo, hoo… j-just like a… a r-rollercoaster r-ride." He giggled, barely audible.

He saw the movement from his periphery, one of the men's boots rearing back, ready to come forward, to again rake across his face.

His reaction this time was good enough, catching the man's foot as it came in, twisting it up and knocking the attacker off his feet.

No sooner had the man hit the ground, four others came in, two reaching down, burying their hands in the material of his shirt.

He was lifted up, and an instant later slammed against a wall, his head snapping back, cracking his skull. The room spun faster, more slurred laughter escaping past his lips.

They held him there as one of the other two stepped forward.

"Stupid freak." He spit, digging his fist deep against the Joker's abdomen, knocking the wind from him.

And the Joker gasped, sharp and loud as the breath was taken from his lungs, more blood coming up from his throat, spitting past his clenched teeth.

In a moment the sound changed, first in to a wheeze before sliding in to more laughter.

His eyes flicked up, shining and without fear.

His tongue came out, swiping over his bloodied lips, fixing his gaze on Dr. Finius, stood a few feet back, watching the scene with cold indifference.

"Wanna get your t-turn in Doc?" He asked, tone heavy with amusement, even as he struggled with the effort of speaking, each word sending shockwaves of pain through his ribcage.

The doctor's lip curled in distain.

"I leave the less refined methods of torture to my men." He answered. "They enjoy it well enough. A reward for their loyalty."

The Joker chuckled lowly, blood dripping steady from his nose, over his mouth.

"Don't wanna get hurt Doc, I kn-know." He grinned, the white of his teeth invisible behind the red. "You like everything to be controooolled, hmm? Don't want there to be any r-risk involved. See, I'm kinda the opposite of all that. I figure, wh… what's the point in doing a thing if it lacks that element of danger? Takes all the fun out of it, and you're gonna end up in the same place anyw… way, heehee."

Anger flashed in the older man's eyes, but the rest of his features remained stoic.

"Put him on his knees." He ordered, voice deceptively calm. "Hold him."

The men complied, pushing the Joker down with little effort, twisting his arms behind his back, keeping him still.

Dr. Finius approached, now staring down at his captive, brow arched in seeming scrutiny.

The Joker looked back up, still smiling wide.

And the doctor reached out, fisting a hand in the madman's hair, jerking his head roughly to the side.

"You are a _defiant_ little boy, are you not?" He hissed. "_Belligerent_. But don't be _foolish_. You think I can't see what it is you're doing?"

The Joker continued to grin, even as the doctor threatened to tear the hair from its roots.

"Oh, no, nooo." He started. "I wh… would never assume you so _simple _Doc. But, you of all people sh… should understand, these sorts of things aren't really… really based in _logic_. The point isss… I got you to _react_. Whether you were aware of my trying to do so or not, you _did_. That's more then you can claim f… for your accomplishments…"

For a moment, he paused, his grin turning wicked.

"Take heed doctor. I am the pale hermit. And beware the pale hermit. For how can he ever _repay _you?"

The doctors teeth ground in agitation, his jaw tightening with his grip.

"So you're _proving_ Joker." He spit. But suddenly his face relaxed, hand uncurling from the lunatic's hair. He smiled back.

"But every man has his breaking point. You yourself are rather… _adept_ in the location of those breaking points, yes?"

And the Joker grinned up at him with equal conviction.

"The best." He answered, voice full with confidence.

But the doctor just kept smiling in return.

"Well, you see, I pride myself on _just_ the very same. Finding people's…"

He reached out suddenly, taking vicious hold of the Joker's jaw, pinching against his jowls tightly.

"_breaking_ points…" he finished.

He felt a vague thrill at the grimace of pain which flashed across the madman's features. He dug his fingers in harder.

"So you can be sure I'll find _yours_." He tugged the Joker forward a little. "I'll hear you scream, before alls said and done."

And now he crouched, so that he was eye level with his captive.

"And if you _don't_, well…" he chuckled. "No loss, really. Just another… _failed_ experiment. You can talk all you like Joker, but the fact remains, it's _you _who's been captured, and _me_ exercising the control. My men here have been beating you for nearly the last ten minutes. You look an absolute fright, if I'm to be honest." His hand moved to the back of the Joker's head, sliding down until he gripped firmly behind his neck. "You haven't once screamed, once asked for mercy… But you're growing _weak_ Joker. You haven't eaten in, what, eight days nearly? I'm afraid your body can't sustain your mind's stubbornness. You keep up this ridiculous _pride_, and you're going to die here. I promise, you will. And no one will ever know. No one will _care_ or acknowledge the bravery you've shown."

The Joker's expression fell flat, staring hard now at the doctor.

"It isn't pride, you fool… And _bravery _would imply I have actual fear of you and your actions." His head shook slowly, feeling the pressure of the doctor's hand at his neck. "That would be one mistake of your _many_."

"And your mistake is _now _Joker!" Dr. Finius hissed, gripping tighter. His lips pulled to a tight smile. "How sad then, for Gotham's supposed _greatest _criminal mastermind to die anonymous, so very _unspectacularly_."

The Joker barked out a sharp peel of laughter, the effort sending shredding pain up his sides and down his back.

"Th… the greatest joke of all then! I think I should like that very much! What better means to end the life of an extraordinary man then through something so clichéd as torture at the hands of some mad doctor?" He again began to laugh.

Rage erupted within the older man, and he let go his captives neck, backhanding him across the mouth.

The blow only momentarily halted the Joker's laughter before he again started, fresh blood tasting on his tongue as the cut on his lip reopened and the insides of his cheeks once more sliced against his teeth.

Dr. Finius watched him, clear disgust written across his face; frustration. He could feel himself tensing with each moment past.

But as suddenly as it came, it went; as abruptly as it occurred to him. 

He smiled, not knowing why he hadn't thought of it before.

It should have been obvious, given how extensive his research had been.

He settled, his entire frame relaxing as he leaned closer.

"What about Batman Joker?" He asked as soon as the lunatic's mirth began to die away.

His voice was soft, almost pleasant.

And it was fast the Joker's laughter cut completely, fixing the doctor with hard eyes.

He said nothing, and the older man continued.

"Well what is it?" He pushed. "You don't wish to speak of him? Isn't he your great… _obsession_?"

The Joker's entire face had morphed in to hard set lines, eyes flashing in anger.

A moment more past before he would speak.

"Batman is none of your concern." He said, his voice flat.

"On the _contrary_ Joker." Dr. Finius answered quickly. "He's very much my concern, as _you're_ my concern. And anything which…" he smirked, again reaching out, taking gentle hold of the Joker's jaw, almost caressingly. "_excites_ you or…" and suddenly his grip tightened. "_bothers_ you, well, that's something I find interest in. So… why don't you tell me about him? Hmm? The one you regard as your _other half_."

But the Joker was silent, saying nothing as he watched the older man with unblinking eyes, his entire form at once motionless, not reacting to the doctor's hand on his face.

Dr. Finius regarded him with a bored expression, brow arching.

He sighed.

"I see this particular subjects perhaps robbed you of your usual gift for _gab_ Joker. So lets see if I can't stimulate you in to answering. Your exploits with the "caped crusader", as the media loves to refer to him as, are obviously well documented. Everything you do… you do for him. Isn't that right?"

He waited, but still the Joker said nothing, his gaze still fixed on the doctor's face.

The older man smiled.

"As I said, your great obsession. You feel you need him, don't you? That without him, there would be nothing for you? No… _game _to play, no real… _challenge_? What then, Joker, would be your response were I to tell you of my planes to _kill _your little vigilante? And that you alone could spare him this fate… if only you would _give up_ your convictions and come to work for me?"

For seconds which seemed to drag for minutes, the Joker remained quiet, expression still stoic.

And then gradually, a small smile crept up across his lips, and his head began to shake, back and forth slowly.

"My response, doctor?" He chuckled lowly. "My response is… good luck."

Momentary confusion flashed in the doctors eyes.

"Good… luck?" He questioned. "Surely you aren't going to pretend as if you really wan…"

"You won't be able to kill him Doc." The madman cut him short. "_I_ can't even kill him, so how exactly are you going to come anywhere even _close_?"

At this the older man smirked.

"Well, I'd say I did rather an efficient job capturing and subduing _you_, so forgive me if I fail to see the correlation. I've proven myself your better."

"No…" the Joker replied. "Your boy and all his _men_ are who deserve the credit _there_. Still, it took them dozens, and still they went about it in what can only be described as a cowardly fashion. And besides, formidable as I _am_, and I am formidable, I don't delude myself in to thinking, as a fighter, I come anywhere close to Batman's skill, nor could one accuse me of being so well _prepared_ excepting when I _wish_ to be. Your men getting _me_ has no bearing on your chances against Batman. In fact… you're just the sort Batman would regard as barely worth his time, so easily he would _dispose_ of you. _Predictable_ as you are. He thrives against such an opponent, if one could even justify referring to you as such."

Silence encompassed the space a moment, Dr. Finius glaring at the Joker with narrowed eyes.

"You're trying to agitate me." He said finally, flatly.

"Oh, I'm not _trying_." The Joker shot back, amusement across his face.

The older man felt himself tense, anger again filling his insides.

But he was quickly aware of it now.

"_No_." He thought. "_That's exactly the reaction he's looking for_."

Slowly, he exhaled, trying to calm himself.

He looked at the Joker, hard, studying him, the Joker looking back.

And the doctor leaned away, a thought suddenly occurring to him.

"You _admire_ him, don't you?" He asked. "Your _Batman_."

"Above you, certainly." The Joker was fast to answer. "It helps that he's so good looking underneath that ma…"

He stopped dead, realizing only as it was coming from his mouth what he was saying. Inwardly he cursed himself for his lapse in awareness.

It was the fatigue getting to him, affecting his mind.

The doctor though hadn't missed a word, his eyes lighting with the smell of opportunity.

"You know who he _is_." He said, voice hushed in astonishment, a smile twisting his lips.

The Joker said nothing, face set in stoicism.

The doctors smile grew.

"Oh, ho, well isn't this a most _fascinating_ development!" He slapped his hands down across his knees. "_You _know who the _Batman_ is! I wonder, does _he_ know you know?"

The Joker didn't respond.

His entire frame went rigid, wanting suddenly to lash out and attack the older man. But he couldn't move, the men easily holding him in place now. He was then all too abruptly aware of how they were twisting his arms painfully behind his back.

He hadn't even noticed before.

"Hmm, well, no matter." Dr. Finius waved a hand. "You must be aware though the _value_ of the information you carry? In fact, I find it valuable enough that I might indeed be willing to make some sort of _deal_ were you to divulge said information. Say, your freedom in exchange for the Batman's identity? How does that sound to your ears? I'll let you go _right now_ if you simply tell me who he is. You can even write it on a piece of paper if you like, one which only _my _eyes will see."

He waited, expecting some kind of response.

But none ever came, the Joker sitting motionless, eyes locked unflinching on the doctor's face.

Dr. Finius' eyes narrowed.

"Oh, come now Joker. You of all people should understand the proposition. You're nothing if not a creature of opportunity, yes? So surely you must…"

"You should be quiet now." The Joker interrupted, voice eerily calm.

And at once the older man's face hardened.

"… Don't be _foolish_ boy." He hissed, feeling his anger return. "A simple piece of information will free you from your current predicament, but you…"

"Be._quiet_." Again the Joker disrupted, voice clipped, tone heavy with warning.

And the doctor couldn't help it now as his anger became tenfold, his hands curling to fists, jaw clenching tight.

Several seconds past in silence then, each looking back at the other with clear set determination.

Until finally the doctor started, expression growing apathetic.

"Very well. If that's the way you want it. Laurence, bring me the syringe. Men, you know what to do." He nodded at the guards holding and surrounding the Joker, and they nodded in return, beginning to pull the Joker to his feet.

Laurence moved from where he'd been standing by the cell's door, carrying with him a small briefcase.

As he reached the doctor, handing it to him, the two men stood and watched as the guards pushed the Joker towards the center of the room.

One man produced a coil of rope as the others roughly forced the Joker's arms above his head.

"His legs." The doctor snapped. "Don't forget his le…"

But it was too late as the madman kicked out, catching one of them hard in the groin, dropping him easily.

And the Joker erupted in to laughter, even as they quickly latched to his ankles, holding him completely still.

Dr. Finius shook his head in annoyance.

"Idiots." He mumbled.

The man who'd been kicked writhed on the ground, no one paying much mind as the rope was hooked through the piping lining the ceiling and then twisted and tied around the Joker's thin wrists.

Dr. Finius watched with indifference as his men pulled their captives arms taught above his head, tying the ropes hard enough to cut the skin.

The Joker didn't flinch, eyes fixed on Dr. Finius as still he laughed lightly.

Dr. Finius observed him like he might a lab animal.

The Joker was weaker physically now, he could see that. Only sheer will giving him the impression of being strong.

Still, it was astonishing the Joker was able to stand at all.

They'd had him here nearly two weeks now, feeding him only once since, and that food he hadn't touched at all.

And already he'd lasted three times as long, and through three times as much as their next, longest lasting captive.

The guards "woke him" every morning, not that the Joker ever, _actually_ slept, by beating him, as they'd just gotten through doing. The lunatic had endured the same twelve times previous already.

With each new thrashing, Dr. Finius ordered his men to go a little harder then the day before, not wanting to beat the madman to death right away, but gradually increase the intensity of it so as to break him over time.

Though by now, the doctor had expected the Joker to begin pleading, and that, as yet, hadn't seemed even close to occurring.

He would instruct his men to start breaking bones with the next beating. Start small the first two or three days. Cracked ribs and broken fingers. And then move on to more serious fractures, the limbs and joint areas.

Already the Joker had suffered horrific contusions, his entire body a literal mass of deep black and blue bruising, red just beneath the surface from broken capillaries, his face a swollen and cut mess.

Dr. Finius' eyes moved to the thin man's hands, the scabbed over ends of his fingers, still, every now and then, seeping blood.

He'd wondered whether they would become infected, wanting to test the rumor of the Joker's supposed greater immune system.

Low and behold, the rumors seemed to have proven true.

Indeed, the Joker's entire physiology was extremely abnormal, given the affects of his exposure to highly toxic, chemical wastes.

How he'd survived _that_ was in itself beyond logic.

But, Dr. Finius had to admit, however grudgingly, the Joker simply wasn't in any way _normal_, displaying a simply unnatural tolerance for pain.

Yet, he was still a man. His body reacted, more or less, as any man's would to the abuse. And sooner or later, his threshold would have to be met.

Already, the doctor thought, there were signs of it, observing the Joker slump slightly forward as his men stepped away, forcing him to stand under his own power.

He smirked.

He might very well finish him off in the next hour or so with what he now had planned.

Since in his medical records it stated the Joker had shown incredible resistance towards both a number of prescribed medications as well as a variety of poisons, Dr. Finius was eager to see just how _resistant_ he really was.

With the Joker secure, the doctor made a move to step towards him, briefcase in hand.

By then the man the lunatic had kicked had gotten to his feet, pain still evident in his features.

He turned in rage towards the Joker, lunging at him.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!" He screamed, rearing a fist back and crushing it against the Joker's face, snapping his head all the way back.

Blood exploded from the madman's nose and reopened cuts on his lip, laughter rising up from his throat.

The man moved to hit him again, and Dr. Finius yelled out…

"Mr. Warren, _stop_!" He spit, his tone making clear he was serious.

The guard halted, turning to look at the doctor, confusion in his eyes.

Seeing the expression across Finius' face, his arm promptly lowered and he stepped away, not arguing.

Dr. Finius said nothing, fingering the briefcase lightly as he continued his earlier approach towards the Joker, smiling up at the bound man when he was finally within a foot of him.

A moment later and he clicked open the case.

Inside was a small syringe, maybe four inches in length.

Dr. Finius took it carefully before handing the unneeded item back to his assistant.

For a moment he studied the needle, turning it over carefully as he held it between his finger and thumb.

Finally he again brought his gaze to the Joker's own.

"Can you guess what this is?" He asked, holding the syringe up for him to see.

The Joker eyed the thing only a moment.

Inside was an amber colored liquid.

"From the _color_…" the Joker grinned. "looks like some form of _neurotoxin_."

"Very _good_ Joker!" The older man smiled in return. "I see your knowledge of chemistry isn't at all exaggerated." He stepped closer. "This is Taipan snake venom. The Taipan, you may know, is considered one of the deadliest snakes on the planet. And their venom, well, it's rather nasty stuff. Its affects include paralysis, and worse still, it causes defibrination. Do you know what _that _is Joker?"

The smile stayed in place across the Joker's lips.

"Non-clottable blood." He answered calmly.

"Yes! Yes! Very good! You're knowledge is commendable Joker! It also can cause kidney and respiratory failure. Unpleasant conditions, no doubt."

"One can imagine." The Joker replied, not missing a beat.

"Yes, well…" the older man continued. "I'm assuming based on your medical records this won't in fact _kill_ you, but…"

"Listen Doc…" the Joker cut him short. "Are you gonna stick me with it or what? Because, frankly, your banter is beginning to bore me. And if that's your intention, I'd rather you simply get it over with."

Dr. Finius stared a moment, saying nothing.

And then he exhaled.

"Well, Joker, I _was_ going to say, though I don't think the toxin will actually kill you, I do believe, nonetheless, the experience will still be quite uncomfortable for you. Perhaps more so even, since you won't have death to rescue you from the pain. You'll have simply to wait for the venom to run its course through your system, which likely will take several days."

"Oh, I'm positively _trembling_ with terror!" The Joker mocked.

"You should be." Dr. Finius replied coldly.

For a moment, there was silence, the Joker looking expressionless back at the older man.

Until finally the doctor continued.

"I'm going to give you a choice, as I've given you _many _thus far." He said. "The deal's much less sweet. But then, it can only be said you brought that on yourself. In exchange for Batman's identity, I'll spare you the injection. If you choose again to _defy_ me, you'll bear the burden of consequence. I promise, the pain will be quite insufferable, even for the likes of you."

The Joker's smile returned, eyes glinting despite the exhaustion which pressed forward from their backs.

"There's nothing insufferable in this world Doc. Least of all the limits of physical agony."

The doctor said nothing for a long, few seconds, staring back at his captive with scrutiny.

"So, that's a no then?" He finally asked.

"'fraid so Doc." The Joker answered brightly.

The older man's expression went flat, giving a single nod. A shrug.

Without further warning, Finius motioned forward, surprisingly quick, the Joker not even realizing the doctor had moved until he felt the sharp prick the needle in his neck.

A moment later, after depressing the plunger fully, Dr. Finius pulled the point carelessly from the madman's vein, stepping back and watching with interest.

"Now…" he began. "I would say you have roughly 45 minutes before you start really feeling the affects." He smiled meanly. "From there, it's all done hill, I'm sorry to inform."

The Joker smirked, scoffing lightly.

There was already deep setting soreness developing where the doctor had pricked him.

"Now don't reduce yourself to _denial _Doc. You're low enough as is." He replied, chuckling. "You aren't sorry at all."

Dr. Finius said nothing to that, face stoic as he continued to watch the Joker.

And once more he stepped back, holding out the now empty syringe for Laurence to take.

It was removed from his hand a moment later, and the older man folded his arms with ease behind his back.

He smiled at the lunatic.

"Laugh all you like." He said, his tone pleasant. "… We'll see how long it is before you start screaming."

The Joker smiled in return.

"Indeed…" he said back. "Indeed we will."

/

**Hey guys, hope you enjoyed the chapter. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed last chapter. And please, remember to leave a review. It helps more then you realize in giving me ideas and with knowing whether you're enjoying the story or not. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey guys! Next chapter! **

**Just a warning, the chapter is pretty graphic, including scenes of some pretty extreme torture and abuse, including noncon. So if that's not something you can read, you may want to skip out on it. Otherwise, I hope you guys enjoy and please remember, reviews are very helpful to me. So if you get the chance, leave me some feedback.**

**On to the chapter…**

**Chapter 6:**

The smell hit them like a wall as they entered the cell, momentarily halting them in their tracks.

They stepped back, faces twisting in a grimace.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ man!" One of them spit, bringing his hand to his face, trying to block the putrid fumes filling the air. "What the fuck's that _smell_?"

"Mother fucker…" another of them started, mouth pulling down in disgust as he brought his eyes to the Joker, who hung limp and unmoving from the ceilings pipes, as they'd left him 24 hours before.

The entire front of his pants were stained dark, and thick saliva hung down off the madman's lip, bile splattered across his front and on the floor below.

"Fuck man… _fuck_! Why do we always gotta deal with this shit? I think…" the guard stepped closer, the other four following close behind. "Ahh hell, the fuckin' freak shit his pants!"

"Well the boss said he might." Another of them said.

"That don't make it any less disgustin'." The first man shook his head. "I mean _look_ at him, damn. Vomit all over his shirt, piss runnin' down his legs. Fuckin' disgustin'."

"Yeah, but orders are orders Tommy. We gotta clean him up, and then we can do whatever we want. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember Rich." Tommy replied, again holding a hand to his nose. "But now I don't even wanna touch him."

"Is he awake?" Another, Lucas, asked.

"Naw, I don't think so." Angel answered. "He ain't moved since we came in."

He bent down slightly to look up in to the Joker's face, shaking his head.

"Naw, he's out." The man reached up, slapping the Joker hard across the face. "Hey, freak-show! Wake up!" He hit him again, and then a third time, until finally the madman's eyes fluttered, his lids lifting slow.

"There he is!" Angel laughed.

As consciousness came back to him, so did the pain, and the Joker sputtered, hacked, thick, foamed saliva forming suddenly in his mouth, pushing past his slacked lips.

"Ah, _gross_." Lucas's lip curled, watching with distain.

"Let's just get him down." Rich again spoke. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can get down to real business. Lou, you got the camera?"

"Right here." Lou replied, holding up a large camcorder.

Rich nodded, taking a switchblade from his pocket and flipping it open, moving closer to their captive.

"Ahh, the fuckin' _smell_ man!" Tommy continued to complain.

"Just _deal_ with it, alright man?" Rich snapped, reaching up and beginning to cut at the ropes. The Joker didn't move, save for a tremor which ran pronounced through his frame, his head slumped forward.

Rich could see where the ropes had cut in to the Joker's wrists, dried blood having seeped in streams down his skinny arms.

They'd been watching him on the monitors up in the lab. It hadn't been long after they'd left that the Joker had begun convulsing violently, shaking and jerking, seemingly without control.

The sound hadn't been very good, the picture a bit grainy, but Rich knew it had been the thrashing motion of his body which had exacerbated the ropes at his wrists, tearing in to the skin. Anyone else would have bleed to death since as Dr. Finius had explained, this particular neurotoxin specifically degraded the enzyme which allowed blood clotting. And from the great amount of blood covering the Joker's arms and which lay thick across his lower lip and the front of his shirt, still not entirely dried, it had obviously had some affect.

But he was still breathing, though it seemed just barely, and he _had_ stopped bleeding.

They'd seen him vomiting, and the audio had picked up the low moans which emanated from his throat. But those had been the only sounds he made. He hadn't screamed. And Dr. Finius had been less then pleased.

But then he'd smiled, and said…

"_Determined little thing, isn't he? Too bad for him… the longer he holds out, the more he'll have to suffer. If he wants to provide the rope by which we hang him…_"

He'd instructed his men then to leave the lunatic be for the next day, and then to clean him up the following morning.

"_You can do whatever you like to him afterwards_." He'd said. "_Save for ending his life. That's a pleasure reserved for myself_."

Rich tried holding his breath as he sliced through the rope, the smell more intense this close up.

"Hurry it up!" Lou hissed angrily. "I can't take this much longer."

"It's almost there, just give me a second!"

Two more passes and the rope gave way, splitting and then snapping.

And the Joker collapsed to the ground, hitting it hard in tangled heap, too weak to stand on his own.

The impact caused a swell of pain, his insides feeling as though they were being crushed to liquid, so consuming it left an almost warm tingle through his body, an almost numbness.

A gasp tore from his throat, the same, foamed saliva fast filling his mouth, bubbling again past his lips, this time mixed with fresh blood.

It was coating his throat, making it hard to breathe, and impossible to swallow.

He tried moving, trying to pull free an arm trapped under his own torso. But the effort was impossible. He wasn't strong enough to do it. And finally it exhausted him, and he again fell limp.

Tommy laughed.

"Haha, look at the freak. Can't even move." He brought his boot forward, placing the ball of it against the Joker's shoulder, giving him a harsh nudge. "Come on freak, get up! What'samatter, too _weak_?"

The Joker didn't react, his breathing harsh and labored, a barely audible wheeze rising from his chest with each intake of air.

Tommy's teeth ground.

"I said get UP freak!" He spit, suddenly rearing his foot back and bringing it swiftly back, sinking it deep in to the Joker's side.

The blow practically lifted the madman up off the floor and over, and again he sputtered, convulsing and shuttering as abruptly he heaved, clear bile erupting past his lips and on to the ground in front of him, failing to alleviate the foam lining thick to the inside of his mouth and throat.

Sickening nausea crushed down on him, his vision blurring as the room spun, and the explosion of laughter around him sounded distant… like it really wasn't there.

Again he heaved, more vomit coming up out of him.

And now he shook more violently, a sudden chill settling in to his bones, and it felt like a million needles, stabbing over every inch of his skin. His head pounded and throbbed, as though his skull were imploding in on itself and in his stomach, a pain so deep and unrelenting, it would easily have reduced any other man to tears.

He didn't move. Made no sound beyond his shallow breaths, barely managing to get any air to his lungs, close to suffocation.

He'd been choked before, strangled. He remembered what it was like. It was like this.

The men stood around a long minute, watching their captive with amusement.

"Fuckin' pathetic…" Lou muttered.

"Lets just get his clothes off, get the shit wiped off him." Rich again stepped in. "Tommy, help me here. You get his pants, I'll get his shirt."

"You get his pants man!" Tommy spit. "I don't wanna touch him!"

"Fine!" Rich snapped. "Who cares? Let's just do this."

He moved around, waiting for the other man to lift the Joker back.

Tommy finally complied, reaching out and burying his hand in the Joker's hair, pulling him up and back.

The madman gave no resistance, falling limp against Tommy's chest as the guard bent down to support him.

"He ain't talkin' as much as usual." Angel noted, standing by and watching.

"Don't think he can." Rich started, reaching for the waistband of the Joker's pants.

"Hey, can you talk Joker?" Tommy slapped their captives face. "You got anything to say?"

No reply came and the man looked up, smirking.

"Guess that's a no." He chuckled.

Rich buried his fingers between the waistband, beginning to pull the slacks down around the Joker's narrow hips.

The smell grew worse still and the men's faces screwed up in repulsion.

"Fuck man…" Tommy went on, himself reaching for the hem of the Joker's shirt, lifting it up.

The Joker's arms hung limp and useless at his side, his head slouched forward, eyes failing to focus on any, one point.

Tommy grabbed harshly around one of his arms, lifting it up to pull it through the shirts sleeve, doing the same to the other before tossing the discarded article at one of the other men.

"Get rid of it man. It stinks."

Lucas frowned, carrying the piece of clothing as though it were diseased, away from him, opening the cell door and throwing it out in to the hall.

The Joker's entire body was covered in a thick sweat, and open sours from being restrained and made to stand or sit in one spot for too long. Barely any of his white skin was visible now through the expansive and deep bruising.

Rich held his breath as he pulled the pants all the way down to the madman's ankles and then off completely, tossing the slacks aside in disgust.

He wasn't wearing any underwear, urine and fecal matter smeared across his skin.

"Ahh, Jesus man, just… just get him over, flip him over on to his stomach so we can wash it off." Rich stood, feeling queasy from the smell, pressing his forearm across his mouth.

As each minute past, the Joker grew more cognizant of where he was and what was happening. But there was nothing he could do.

He couldn't move, and he knew it was both from the neurotoxins paralyzing affects and absolute physical fatigue, his body thoroughly exhausted from the trauma it had sustained.

If it weren't so, if he had even half his usual strength, he could have killed these men easily.

If he were able to just stand even.

And even if that was asking too much, if he could only get his vocal cords to work, he could at least have caused them humiliation through words.

But his voice box, like the rest of him, seemed frozen and dead, no sound emitting when he tried in vain to use it.

And it didn't matter.

It didn't matter what _could_ be. It only mattered what _was_.

He couldn't move.

He couldn't talk.

He couldn't fight back.

His eyes lifted, gazing at the man at his feet, rising to the two standing behind him, and in them he could see excitement born from ill-intent.

They planned on something extreme with him. Something violent.

He felt nothing.

Suddenly he was being lifted under the arms and pushed forward, let go to drop carelessly on the floor against his face and stomach.

And then he felt his arms and legs being pulled out from beneath him, stretching him out until he lay splayed and prone across the concrete.

"You gettin' this Lou?" Tommy asked as Rich disposed of the soiled pants, outside the cell.

"Yeah, I've been filmin' the last five minutes." Lou replied.

Tommy smirked.

"Good. Now everyone…" he started. "grab a bucket."

Barely a second later, and the Joker felt the sting of ice cold water being dumped over him, one bucket after another, the shock of it forcing another gasp past his lips as it stole what little breath he had from his lungs.

And then he felt hands on him, pulling his legs apart, and what felt like a sponge, being dragged roughly along his hamstrings and down, to the insides of his thighs, then up again as they scrubbed against his glutes, and then to the inside.

A few moments later, and one of them said…

"Turn him over."

And he was suddenly being pushed on to his back, his legs again spread as they continued to sponge at his front now, the men declaring how sick it all was making them.

It lasted several minutes, until they were satisfied they'd cleaned all the waste from his lower half.

"Just put that shit outside." Rich said. "The buckets and sponges and shit. It still fuckin' stinks."

The Joker could hear the men moving about, and his eyes rolled up, trying to get a gauge of where in the room they were. But all he could see was the ceiling, and still everything spun in circles.

He heard the cell door open, things being tossed out, clattering against the floor.

He realized suddenly their hands were no longer holding him down, and so he tried to move, trying with little strength to roll to his side, wanting to get to his hands and knees. He failed, falling quickly flat against his back again.

Lou began to laugh.

"H-hey guys! Look at it… look at this!" He crowed, starting to pace around their struggling captive, zooming in closer with the camera. "He… he's tryin' to get up!"

The other men had turned at his request, stepping closer and watching, eyes wide in delight.

They all began to laugh.

The Joker wasn't listening, trying again to get to his side, and again, and again, failing each time until he'd worn himself out completely, collapsing on to his back, his breathing even more labored then before, sweat thick across his forehead.

The pain in his stomach and limbs seemed impossibly worse now, and he was unable to hide it from his face, his features lining in agony.

He would laugh, but his voice was gone to him.

"Hey, hey!" Lou came in closer. "Joker! This is just like what you did to that poor police Commissioner's daughter, ain't it? _Ain't it_?"

"Hey! Yo, that's _right_ Lou!" Tommy laughed. "He _did_ do somethin' like this, didn't he?"

"Well, you know, what goes around comes around and all that." Rich interjected, grinning wide as he watched the Joker's chest rise and fall, shallow, eyes blinking rapidly.

"True enough." Lou chuckled.

"Hey, how much you think this'll fetch us on the black market?" Lucas suddenly asked. "It's gotta be a lot, right? I mean, ain't no one ever got to the Joker like this, right?"

Angel shook his head.

"Hell no. Video of us makin' the _Joker_ our bitch?" He laughed. "That'll fetch us a fortune. Maybe even enough to get us outta here."

"Yeah, well, just don't go tellin' the boss about it. He'd be mad for sure." Rich cut in. "If he thought we compromised his facility."

"Look! Look! He's tryin' to get up again!" Tommy started laughing harder. "Here Joker, lemme _help_ you!"

He stepped in, reaching down and burying his hand in the lunatic's hair, his other gripping tight to his face. And in one, swift motion, as though the Joker weighed nothing, he lifted him up and threw him, pushing him down to his stomach.

The swiftness of his being moved so suddenly forced his nausea back up, and he gagged harshly, convulsing as again he vomited, more clear bile, thick saliva and blood.

"Aww, sorry 'bout that laughing boy!" Tommy chuckled, the others joining in. "Motion sickness, huh?"

And for the next, several minutes they just stood, watching and silent as the Joker now tried with equal inability to push himself to his hands and knees, failing over and over, collapsing each time back to his face, the few moments he managed to stay up, his arms shaking violently, his entire frame trembling before giving way.

"I've got an idea!" Lucas suddenly spoke. "Remember those cattle prods the boss was usin' that one time? How 'bout I go and get em'?"

"Fuck yeah!" Angel exclaimed. "And while you're at it, bring us some other shit. Like, get us some bats and shit!"

"And those little whips with the hooks on the end!" Tommy added. "Get those too!"

"Damn, we 'bout to have ourselves a _good _time!" Lucas laughed, turning to leave, to retrieve the items.

If the Joker had heard them, he hadn't reacted, no differing expression across his face as he continued with the same, steady attempts to lift himself.

"Hey Joker, why don't ya do what you're supposed to and just stay _down_!" Rich came in, kicking up, sinking his boot as deep in to the Joker's stomach as he could, and again the madman collapsed, again gasping as once more the air was ripped from his lungs and he coughed violently, blood spraying past his lips.

"Whoa, careful Rich!" Tommy laughed. "Remember what the boss said about killin' him!"

"Pff…" the other man waved him off. "He'll be fine. If he ain't dead yet, a little kick in the stomach ain't gonna put him down."

"He sure is spittin' a lot of blood though." Lou noted, rubbing his chin, smirking.

"Yeah, well, he's probly bleedin' internally." Rich said.

"What, you mean like, inside?"

Rich nodded.

"Yeah. Like from the stomach or somethin'."

For a few moments more, the Joker shook and sputtered, face pressed flat on its side against the concrete, blood dripping steady from his lips, mixed still with his foaming spit.

He sucked in sharply, his body trying inadvertently to get air to its lungs, and again.

And the he placed his palms flat down, trying once more to push himself up.

"Would you…" Tommy shook his head, staring in astonishment. "Would you look at this clown? He's still tryin' to get up!"

Angel snarled.

"He's a fuckin' idiot!" He snapped, stepping in. "You're a fuckin' idiot bozo! Why don't you learn to do as you _told_!"

And now he sunk his foot in to the Joker's abdomen, hard enough to lift him slightly from the ground before the lunatic fell back to his face.

The same scene ensued. The Joker spitting up blood and foam, gagging and retching as whatever liquid was left in his stomach forced its way up.

Seconds past, him shuddering against the ground.

And then he again tried, arms shaking uncontrollably as he attempted pushing himself to his hands and knees, and then the men's pronouncements of disbelief, followed by their kicking the Joker in the stomach, each taking turns, over and over, with each blow more blood splattering on the ground.

It continued on for many minutes, the same sequence.

The Joker's eyes fixed on the strange patterns his blood made on the floor each time he tried getting up, imagining them as actual objects, and then the objects would explode in to chaos as each time one of the men sunk their boot in to him, his vision erupting in to white.

Until finally the madman hardly moved.

But _still _he moved, still trying, barely able now to lift himself more then a few inches.

And it would be his attackers to first gave in, finally stopping. They stood, watching the Joker with bewilderment as the thin man, hardly breathing, struggled to get up.

"… this fucker's crazy." Tommy finally said.

"Well, yeah." Rich replied. "He really is."

Lou bent, fisting his hand in the Joker's hair, lifting his head from the ground.

"What the fuck's wrong with you clown?" He asked. "Why won't you stay down? You're only makin' it worse on yourself."

The Joker didn't reply.

Instead his hands lifted, reaching back, probing directionless, grasping at the air as he tried finding the guard's wrist, trying to pry his hold away.

Lou watched in astonishment.

When the Joker's fingers came too close, he swatted them viciously away, almost as though he feared them, driving the Joker's head back down in disgust, uncurling his hand from his hair before standing.

"Fuck this freak show." He muttered, stepping away.

The cell's door opened then, Lucas stepping through the threshold, arms and hands filled with various objects.

"I'm back boys!" He announced, coming forward. "And I got all the shit we'll need."

He dropped everything to the floor, and then he bent, reaching in to the pile.

"Here." He said, pulling something up. "This'll be fun, huh?"

He held a long, five foot pole, at its end dangled an S&M dog collar.

"Oh, and this!" He reached back in to the pile, picking out a ball-gag. "Not that he's runnin' that big mouth of his now anyway, but it'll sure make him even more uncomfortable!"

"Oh, damn, give it here! Give it here!" Rich held his hand out eagerly, reaching for the gag.

Lucas handed it to him and the man took it, turning back towards the Joker.

"Okay, _big man_…" he started, stepping towards their captive. "Time to try a little somethin' out."

He stepped over the Joker, lowering himself to his knees until his straddled the back of the madman. And then he reached out, fisting his hand in the Joker's hair, jerking his head back.

"Now, you don't really strike me as a very… _sexual_ guy Joker." He began, a twisted grin pulling at his lips. "despite all that gay ass, lovey dovey flirtin' shit you always do. But I mean, who can really tell what anyone is, this day and age, right?" He laughed. "I mean, if you ain't in to pussy, you might be in to cock! And maybe you ain't in to anythin' at all. But we won't know 'till we test it out, will we?"

The Joker made no sound, only like he did before, reaching his hands back, groping for Rich's wrist.

"Hmm." The man smirked, knocking the lunatic's hands aside. He looked over at the others. "What do you say boys? Wanna see if we can make him _squeal like a pig_?"

"Put it in his mouth man!" Lucas urged, eyes wide.

"Yeah, imagine that! We get him to scream 'stead of the boss!" Tommy laughed.

"Well there's only one way to find out!" Rich laughed with him, turning back to the Joker. "C'mere you princess."

He reached around with the gag, easily forcing the madman's mouth open with it, pulling either strap back, hard, pulling the ball past the Joker's teeth.

He began to buckle the ends, making sure the gag was taught, tightening it as far as it would go against the back of the Joker's head.

When he had it secure, he smiled, pushing the Joker's head back down, leaning over him.

His hands caught hold of the thin man's wrists, pinning them to the floor as he whispered against his ear…

"There's a good boy…"

The Joker breathed harshly through his nose, air further restricted, eyes staring blankly ahead as his face was crushed on its side.

"Now the collar." Rich said, straightening, still holding the Joker's wrists to the floor.

Lucas didn't hesitate, stepping forward and handing the restraint over.

Rich took it, paying no mind as the moment he let go the Joker's wrists, the lunatic again began lifting his hands. He was too weak to do anything, and Rich knew it.

He shifted, burying a knee between the Joker's shoulder blades, keeping him still as he reached down, wrapping the collar around his throat, securing it around his neck.

And as he stood, he took hold of the poll with both hands, tugging on it hard, pulling the Joker up, on to his knees.

The men began laughing again as Rich jacked the collar up further, forcing the Joker's head back, the leather strap digging against his throat, pushing against his windpipe, making it harder even to breathe.

The saliva continued to gather thick in his throat, coating the inside of his mouth, and still his muscles refused to work, swallowing hardly possible.

And so the foaming spit began to push forward, trickling out the corners of his mouth, slowly down his jaw.

"_Gross_." Angel spit in apparent disgust.

Tommy laughed.

"Not lookin' so suave now, are ya Joker?"

Rich pulled the collar more extreme, lifting the Joker more, until he was fully stretched out, his knees barely touching the ground.

And he began to choke.

But still his hands remained at his sides. He didn't flail. Didn't panic.

Rich's mouth pulled in to a disappointed frown, keeping the poll at its severe angle for several seconds until it became obvious the Joker would choke to death without any sort of struggle, without protest, and so at last he lowered him, until he sat fully on his knees, relieving the pressure against his throat.

"Freak…" he muttered, annoyed.

"Hey, hey, watch this!" Tommy started, stepping forward until he stood directly in front of the lunatic. "Lucas, get his arms. Hold em' for me."

The other man chuckled, stepping behind their captive, crouching and pulling the madman's arms behind his back, easily holding him still.

Tommy reached out a hand, palming the back of the Joker's head, fingers curling, digging in to his scalp, and he pulled the thin man forward, forcing his face against his crotch.

"Guess the rumors are true, eh? Joker here likes _dick_!" He laughed, pressing the Joker's face harder against him, grinding his hips forward. "Come on bitch! Give me somethin' good!"

The men exploded in to laughter, watching the display with feverish excitement, whooping and hollering as Tommy bucked his hips forward.

Until finally Tommy quit, crouching down so that he was eye level with the madman.

He grinned at him.

"Yeah, yeah, that felt real _nice _Joker. You must got experience sucking guys off, huh? You got me all wet just using your _face_." He chuckled.

The Joker stared back at him, expressionless, still.

Tommy reached out, tracing his fingers along the lunatic's jaw line and then down, over his throat.

"You'd make good jail bait." He went on, fingers traveling lower, over the Joker's chest. "Course, they keep you locked up in that loony bin usually, ain't that right?" His hand dropped to the Joker's stomach.

"Jerk him off Tommy!" Lou suggested excitedly. "See if you can't get that dick of his to stand up!"

Tommy smirked.

"You like the sound a' that laughing boy?"

The madman looked, unblinking back. He didn't move, made no sound.

Tommy's lip curled.

"Make sure you get this Lou." He said flatly, reaching down suddenly, taking the Joker in his hold.

Lou stepped in, focusing the camera on the lunatic's face as Tommy jerked at him roughly.

And still the Joker stared ahead, expressionless. It seemed he was looking at nothing, even as his gaze fixed on the man who had him, his eyes unfocused, blank…

Lifeless.

Lou stepped back for a fuller shot, the only movement from the Joker that of him being jostled from Tommy's own motion against him.

For nearly five minutes, the man kept it up, the others standing and watching. But the state of their captives condition never changed.

"Give the collar a choke Rich." Tommy finally said, his gaze locked on the Joker's face. "Maybe he'll react to some auto-erotic asphyxiation. Seems like the type, don't he?"

Rich smiled, gladly pulling up on the collar again, lifting the Joker off his knees now, Tommy continuing to rub and jerk at him hard.

The strap dug tight against the Joker's throat, tighter then before, threatening now to cut the skin and pulling up under his jaw.

He again began to choke, spit and blood drizzling from the corners of his mouth, finding its way around the ball.

Lucas continued to trap his hands at his back. But it wasn't necessary.

The Joker was limp, giving no struggle.

No fight.

Rich pulled more viciously on the collar, wanting it to cut in to the skin.

And only when the Joker's eyes began to roll back in his head, and his face had begun to turn a blue tinge, did Tommy tell him he should stop.

"He's 'bout to croak Rich." He said, finally giving up his attempts to stimulate the madman. "Better let him go."

Rich gave the pole slack, letting the Joker fall back to his knees, hard.

Inadvertently he sucked sharply for air, able only to breathe in through his nose.

Heavy wheezing rose up from his throat, marred by weak hacking and strangled coughs. He slumped forward, his forehead nearly touching the ground, only the collar around his neck and Rich pulling back keeping him from it.

"Man, I just gave the freak a world class hand job and I didn't even get a twitch!" Tommy spat. "There's somethin' wrong with this fucker. He ain't even a man."

"Waste of a dick." Angel laughed.

"Now there's an idea!" Lou piped up. "Stick his dick between his legs, so he looks like he's got a cunt instead!"

"Fuck yeah!" Tommy's enthusiasm returned. "C'mere you little faggot!" He again bent down. "Rich, pick him back up!"

Rich didn't hesitate, lifting the Joker up again, keeping him on his knees now, and Tommy reached forward, once more taking hold of him, pushing his penis back.

"Close his legs guys." He instructed, Angel and Lucas assigning themselves the task, pushing the Joker's legs together.

"Now keep him there. You getting' this Lou?"

"Sure am!" The man laughed. "Look at that! He looks like he's got no dick!"

They all erupted in to laughter then.

Tommy moved around behind the madman, taking hold of his lifeless arms, spreading them out in a wingspan, holding them at the wrists. He leaned in, his face beside the Joker's ear, his eyes fixed on the lens of Lou's camera.

"Look at this little sweetheart!" He said. "She's a fine specimen, ain't she fella's?"

"Sure is!" Angel chuckled. "Look at that cute little pussy!"

"What do ya say honey?" Tommy whispered against the Joker's ear. "I bet you'd like us to fuck that cunt of yours in half, huh?"

He received no reply, the Joker not even indicating he'd heard the man.

Tommy only smirked, pressing his lips flat against the lunatic's cheek, kissing him.

Still the Joker didn't react.

"This bitch is actin' like he's dead or some shit." Lou finally complained.

"Yeah, well… let's see if there ain't nothin' we can do about that."

Tommy responded, letting the Joker's arms go and standing.

He went for the pile Lucas had brought earlier, reaching in and pulling from it one of the cattle prods.

He turned back around, grinning.

"You guys grab a couple." He pointed at Angel and Lucas. "This'll be fun."

The other two men grinned back, standing and moving forward, taking up their own prods.

"Come on!" Rich moved around, pulling on the collar.

The Joker fell over on to his side, and was then pulled on to his back, Rich dragging him a few feet across the floor before stopping, jerking the collar hard to the right, turning the madman over until he had him on his stomach.

The other three came up, jabbing the Joker viciously with their prods.

"Come on little pig!" Tommy hissed. "Squeal for us! Come on!"

But the Joker didn't.

The prods dug in to his skin, stabbing him, making him bleed.

And he again tried pushing himself up, to his hands and knees.

"Naw, aw. None of that!" Lucas laughed, rearing his prod back, swinging it down hard as he could across the Joker's back.

The Joker collapsed back to his face and stomach.

Lucas turned, reaching back in to the pile and pulling a hooked metal rod from it, going back and watching only a moment as the Joker continued struggling on the ground, again trying to lift himself. Lucas swung the weapon down against his back again, the sharp end ripping the lunatic's skin open.

The Joker choked out, the sound muffled, his face lining in pain as he fell back down.

Blood sprayed.

"Hey man!" Lou spat. "That shit just got on the lens!"

"Oh stop cryin'!" Rich answered. "Just wipe it off with your shirt."

"Looket' this shit!" Angel drew their attention back. "He's still tryin' to get up, haha!"

"Let him this time! Let's see what he does!"

They all stood, watching then as the Joker tried, his arms shaking violently, his breath shallow and labored.

And somehow he managed to stay up, his eyes lifting, staring ahead.

It was his only course, he knew.

He couldn't stop them. There was no reason in trying.

But they weren't going to stop him either.

His entire frame shook, it taking every ounce of strength he had to hold himself up.

"Well he's just sittin' there!" Lucas said, disappointment in his voice.

Tommy's lip curled in disgust.

"Fuckin' dumb ass."

He put the ball of his foot against the Joker's shoulder, shoving him back down.

Angel reached out, pulling the lunatic up by the hair.

"Why don't you ever _scream_, huh?" He asked. "What are you, retarded or somethin'?"

"I bet this'll make him squirm!" Lucas started. "Rich, pick him up."

Rich again tugged on the pole, dragging the Joker back up to his knees.

And Lucas began unzipping his pants.

"What'ch you doin'?" Tommy asked.

"I'm gonna use this fucker's face as a toilet." He laughed. "Stand back fella's."

"Ohhh, ho, ho!" Tommy laughed, slapping his knee. "Let's have it!"

Lucas pulled himself out of his pants, stepping closer.

"Here ya go cum rag!" He said, aiming the stream of urine in to the thin man's face.

Inadvertently the Joker's eyes closed against it, Rich jerking the collar up, making it impossible for him to turn his face away.

The men laughed, watching as Lucas empties his bladder on the lunatic, aiming the stream all over his face and then down, across his chest and stomach.

"Wait!" Tommy suddenly interrupted. "I've got an even better idea! I've been holdin' a giant shit in for a couple days, and I think I just found the perfect spot to let it dump!"

"Ahh, no way Tommy!" Angel chuckled. "That's nasty."

"I know! Here, get him on his back, hold him down." Tommy began unbuckling his pants.

Rich began laughing, pulling hard on the collar, forcing the Joker over, on to his back.

Angel and Lucas came in, pushing down on the lunatic's shoulders, making sure he couldn't move as Tommy pushed his pants to his ankles.

A moment later and he was positioning himself, squatting down over the Joker's exposed face.

Rich pulled the poll taught, again keeping the Joker from moving his head.

"See that Joker?" He mocked as Tommy began defecating. "This is all your worth now. Somebody's fuckin' shit bowel."

Lou laughed, zooming in close with the camera.

"Good one Rich. That's all you are Joker. You ain't no _criminal mastermind_. I don't know how you even ever got that rep. You're just a good place to take a dump."

"God damn Tommy, that's a big ass terd!" Lou laughed.

Tommy stood straight, pulling his pants back up as he did, chuckling along.

"Like I said, been holdin' it in for two days!"

Rich's mouth pulled in to a frown as he glared at the Joker, lying motionless, eyes staring blank at the ceiling.

He again pulled on the collar.

"Get up you faggot!" He spat. "Get the fuck up!"

Angel and Lucas took hold the madman's arms, picking him up as Rich continued tugging at the collar.

Within seconds they again had the Joker on his knees.

Tommy having taken up one of the hooked weapons from the pile, he now stood in front of their captive, smirking down at him.

"Hold em' tight boys." He said, laughing. "I want him to take the full impact."

And so they did, pulling the Joker's arms taught behind him, holding him stiff.

Tommy didn't hesitate a moment, swinging the hooked stick down, catching it across the madman's chest and tearing down.

The Joker's skin flayed open and blood sprayed, a giant gash appearing, red and deep.

And the Joker slumped forward, a muffled gasp pushing past the gag, his head swimming with the pain, a pronounced shutter racking his body.

"Get that fuckin' gag off him!" Tommy spat. "I wanna hear him!"

Angel let go his hold, the lunatic nearly collapsing to his side if not for Lucas still grasping his arm.

He undid the straps holding the gag in place, letting it drop to the floor, and thick, bloodied saliva washed out from the Joker's mouth, hanging in foamy rings from his lower lip.

"Come on bitch! Why don't you _scream_?" Tommy hissed, rearing his boot back and bringing it forward, crushing it against the madman's face.

And the force was enough to rip the Joker's arm free of Lucas' hold, the pole from Rich's hand, sending the lunatic backwards, sprawled half on his side, half on his back, more blood forming fast, pouring past his teeth.

For a few moments, the men just stood round, watching as he struggled, trying to roll over, to get to his hands and knees.

Each time he failed, and each time, he tried again.

Rich's lip curled in disgust.

"You just don't know when to _quit_!" He raged, stepping forward, sinking his foot in to the Joker's stomach. "_Do you_?"

And the Joker wretched, gagging, a moment later clear bile rising out of his throat, on to the ground.

But they gave him no time to finish, Lucas stepping around, grabbing hold the collar's pole, twisting and lifting the lunatic back to his knees.

He pressed down on the poll, against the back of the madman's neck, forcing his face to the ground.

"Check this shit out." He said, reaching in to his pocket, pulling out a lipstick. "I got this shit for my girl 'bout a week ago, but me and the bitch broke up. Figured it might be good for somethin'. Ain't this fag always wearing make-up or some weird shit?"

Lou began to laugh.

"Yeah. Like on his face and shit. Heard he thinks it _scares_people. Gay, right? Like anybody'd be scared of a pasty-ass clown lookin' motherfucker like him anyway!"

"Write somethin' on him." Tommy said. "Write somethin' on his ass!"

"Like what?" Lucas asked, scrunching his face up in seeming disgust.

"He's a fuckin' cock sucker! I bet he'd do anything for some guys dick, real talk. Why you think he's so obsessed with the bat?"

"Yeah!" Tommy joined in. "Ten-cent cockslut! He'd give it up for less even, I bet. Write that on his ass!"

Lucas chuckled.

"Yeah, okay." He pressed down harder on the pole, making sure the Joker couldn't move, popping the cap of the lipstick. And he began then to write on him, the men laughing as he did.

And the Joker did nothing, lying without movement, eyes locked still blank ahead.

"Someone get the table. That fold up one we left outside!" Lucas finished, tossing the lipstick aside.

"I'll get it!" Angel volunteered, going for the door.

"Now we're gonna have some _real_ fun, clown boy." The man grinned down at him, giving the collar a rough pull.

It was only seconds later Angel returned, carrying a fold up poker table in his hands.

"Just set it up over here." Lucas said, motioning with his head towards a few feet in front of him.

The others joined in, unfolding the legs, setting the table right-side up.

"I'm takin' the collar off so it won't be in the way." Lucas started, reaching out, beginning to undo the strap.

And quickly he had the collar removed, tossing it aside before bending down, hooking his hands underneath the Joker's arms and picking him up.

The Joker was limp, his head slouching forward, arms hanging dead at his side as the man lifted him with little effort.

He could get no breath to his lungs, each inhalation driving sharp and splintering pain through his ribs and stomach. And still he felt nauseaus, though there was little of anything to throw up now.

He knew what they were doing. Knew what this was.

Their pathetic and unimaginative attempt to steal something from him.

He wished now he had his voice, wished it so he could laugh at them; show them how very meaningless their action would be, how useless.

Because it meant nothing to him, what they were going to do, just like everything they'd thus far done.

Just like it all.

There would be no violation, no intrusion upon _him_.

His mind was gone from this; gone from everything. And that's what they didn't understand. What Dr. Finius didn't understand. Why they would keep trying and failing time and again to draw from him what they most desired.

They would never have his surrender.

Because this... this meant nothing.

And there was no emotion stirred as he was thrown over the table.

No anger or fear or even hatred grew within his heart.

Nothing.

Nothing as two of them took hold his arms and stretched them out across the surface, holding him fast along his wrists.

Nothing but the physical, as there was suddenly the weight of the man from behind, lying across his back, the sound of their laughter as the man ground against him, half-heartedly bucking his hips forward.

And nothing still as he heard the man then unbuckling his belt, the sound of his fly unzipping.

The same as he felt the man's hand underneath him, fingers dragging and prodding and pushing, and then wrapping around him, jerking him violently.

Nothing with the man pushing in to him, fast and hard and vicious, forward and back, forward and back, his other hand burying in his hair, pressing his face to its side.

Nothing as he heard the grunting and moaning, or the man telling him he "felt real nice". Or the ones holding his wrists pulling him further, flattening him more against the table.

He knew the others would do the same; likely they'd do it repeated times.

And he felt nothing, staring past the lens in his face, past the walls which now trapped him here.

His mind was gone from this place.

It was on the street…

… He wondered about the Bat…

And almost it brought a smile to his lips, if not for his weakness, his physical exhaustion taking the expression from him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys. New chapter. Thanks goes to my beta TheMadCapLaughs for her help on this chapter. I want to thank everyone who read and reviewed last chapter. I got a lot of really great response to it, and I just want you to know how much I appreciate it. Reviews help me immensely and I think I got more on that last chapter then any other. I hope to hear from all of you on this one as well, and hope you enjoy!**

**Chapter 7:**

Batman stood, impatient at the top of the Aparo building, located downtown, in Gotham's business district. It was here the city's tallest buildings resided, and he found himself at its edge, eyes fixed on the street below, watching what now appeared as miniature cars and people, crowding like ants beneath him.

He'd been here the last half an hour, waiting, and ready, ears listening for any sound to indicate the presence of his once adopted son.

The scuff of boot against concrete a moment later, and he knew he'd arrived.

He turned, catching sight of him in the dark, staring back in return.

Several seconds past in silence, neither speaking, until finally the younger man smirked, stepping forward, in to the moons light.

"I was there nearly a minute without you knowing." He said, condensation in his voice. "You must be distracted."

Batman's mouth pulled in to a tight line, stood still.

"Jason… I need your help."

And Jason laughed, the sound bitter, frustrated.

"_You _need _my_ help?" He sounded disbelieving. "Since when? Seems to me _these_ days you'd rather act as if you didn't know me at all. But no surprise Bruce. Whatever's most convenient, right? No matter how you might have treated people. If you need something from them, you'll have it."

"Jason, I don't have time for this right now." Bruce cut in angrily.

"No Bruce, you _never_ had time for it. But you know what, whatever. I don't want to be here any more then you do. So just tell me what the hell it is you want. I can already tell you the answers going to be no."

Bruce felt his entire frame tense, agitation growing at the insolence of the former Robin. He didn't know how many times he was going to have to apologize to him before he could make him understand the sincerity of his remorse.

He knew what he was about to ask wasn't going to help matters any.

He exhaled sharply, trying to calm himself.

He stepped closer.

"The Joker's gone missing." He said, his voice flat, betraying none of the exhaustion it had been causing him these last, several weeks. "He's been gone nearly a month now."

For a moment, Jason said nothing, staring at the larger man with blank eyes.

And then he shifted, stepping back.

"Is that _unusual _or something Bruce?" He asked, and there was no mistaking the absolute anger in his voice, though calm it was. "The freak makes a habit of that sort of thing, doesn't he? Disappearing only to resurface when you _least _expect it?"

Bruce gave a single shake of his head.

"No. Not like this." He started. "He meant to…" he paused, realizing this was going to sound strange, as though he and the Joker shared too much of a familiarity. But he had to explain. "He meant to meet me. He told me he would be on top of the Essex building, waiting. But he never showed. He's never done that. Never promised to _meet _me and then failed…" Again he paused, his eyes shifting down as he readied himself to say his next words. "Something's happened to him Jason."

The younger man's reaction was immediate.

"And you _care_?" He spat in astonishment. "Why the fuck are you telling me this Bruce? You think something happened to him? Good riddance then! I hope the bastards dead!"

"I need to exhaust all possibilities." Batman replied. "I've spoken with everyone else I can think of that might know something or be involved in this. I just got done interrogating Cobbelpot." His head shook. "He knew nothing. His reaction in fact was similar to your _own_. Is that who you want to be compared to? A self-serving criminal like the Penguin? You're supposed to _care_ about people Jason."

Jason's expression twisted in to a vicious snarl.

"That psychopathic fucking piece of shit _scum bag_ isn't a _person_ Bruce!" His voice rose. "He's a God damned _monster_! He should have be fucking drowned at _birth_!"

Batman's own anger grew inexplicably, his hands again clenching to fists.

"He's _sick_ Jason. Mentally unwell. People can't help the way they're born."

Bruce almost couldn't believe the words as they were coming out of his own mouth. Couldn't believe the fact he was defending the Joker to this man, the one person who would always be hopelessly biased, and rightfully so. He felt like such a fool, but in the same moment, was compelled to it, beyond his understanding.

Jason's mouth hung open in apparent shock, eyes wide and vibrating with emotion.

For a moment, he could say nothing, speechless, until finally he seemed to break from it, his head shaking.

"No. No. I can't… can't believe I'm hearing this. I can't _fucking _believe it! What… what the hell is _wrong _with you Bruce? You're… you're as twisted in the head as that son of a bitch! You're just as sick!"

Bruce tried to ignore his words, trying to stay calm, it growing increasingly more difficult as the weight of what Jason said crushed down on him, the worry that maybe it was true.

But still he continued.

"Jason, I need to know if you had anything to do with this. Did you do something to him?"

Jason scoffed, the sound bleeding in to disgusted laughter.

"I _wish_!" He spat. "If he's dead, and one can only _hope_, if he's dead, I only wish it had been _me_ to deep six the fucker! In fact, you know what? Fuck that! I hope he's still alive, that someone's got the bastard and that they're torturing him, making him _suffer_ like he God damn _deserves_ to!"

"Jason, this isn't a _game_!" Bruce snapped. "I have to _find_ him!"

"WHY?" Jason screamed in his face. "Why do you have to find him Bruce? Why is it so _fucking _important?"

"Because I can't let someone _die _when there's something I could have done to save them!"

And Jason fell silent, staring without movement, seconds passing without words.

The younger man swallowed, thick and heavy, a sudden and visible tremor running through his frame.

He stepped back.

"You mean like you saved me Bruce?" His voice came out a whisper. "You mean like that?" And now his voice shook as his body.

Bruce said nothing, staring back silent.

There was nothing he _could _say.

Jason was right. Hypocrisy lay heavy in his own words, and he felt suddenly like such an unbearable fool. His own nerve was at once sickening to him.

"Jason, I…" he started. But the younger man cut him short.

"You care more about him then you do about me. Is that it? You've always cared more about him."

Bruce's eyes grew wide, and he began to shake his head.

"No. No, Jason, that isn't…"

"You know something, Bruce?" Again Jason interrupted. "Word travels fast. I get to hear stuff, just like you do. And yeah, I heard the Joker had disappeared. Wanna hear something else?"

Bruce regarded him silently.

"When I heard you wanted to speak with me, I hoped ... I _prayed_ you'd have good news. I prayed you were going to tell me you'd finally snapped - or, in a sane person's parlance, grown a spine - and offed the fucker once and for all. Then maybe, just _maybe_, I'd have been able to forgive you. Today of all days."

Bruce looked down.

"Because you're so _consumed_ with him, you've even forgotten what day it is, haven't you?"

Bruce looked up suddenly.

"It's my birthday."

Batman felt his entire body go numb, face flushing suddenly hot with a kind of mortification.

No… no… how could he have forgotten? How could he when…

"Happy fucking birthday to ME." Jason spat, and now his eyes shined, the unmistakable sheen of tears, and he turned angrily from Bruce, his hand coming up and wiping viciously across his face.

"Better arrest me and take me in now, eh?" He continued. "'Cause that's what you _do,_ isn't it? Running around putting the world to rights. All that sanctity of life crap and playing by the rules. Well, the rules don't apply to the likes of _that _filth."

And abruptly he began laughing, chuckling lowly as he turned back to his former mentor.

"You know what's funny? You're wasting your time here, talking to me, yet you're so _concerned_ about him, that he's off somewhere, something _horrible_ happening to him. The longer you stand here, the longer you waste your time _talking_ to me about that piece of shit, the less time you _have_. The more likely it is he's dead or dying or _suffering_. So why don't you _run along_ Bruce. Run along and save him before it's _too late_ and you find yourself having to bear the burden of your own _failure_. Oh, sorry, you already _do_, don't you?"

He waited a moment, glaring at the larger man with hard eyes.

But Bruce said nothing. _Could_ say nothing. He couldn't tell Jason he was wrong. But neither could he justify doing what the younger man asked of him. He could never kill, never take the life of another human being, no matter how horrific society had deemed them. Nor could he stand idly by knowing another person was in danger, _knowing_ it and yet allowing it to continue.

It was his duty to protect.

That was his duty.

Jason's lip curled in apparent disgust, his head shaking as he received no reply.

"Yeah." He said. "No surprise Bruce. Nothing to say. I'm outta here. If you find the scum bag, I hope you're fucking happy with each other. You can share your precious _sickness_ together!"

Without another word, the former Robin turned, stepping towards the edge of the roof. And Bruce could only watch, frozen in his silence, in not knowing what to say, the guilt of it crushing down on his conscience.

And just as Jason dropped down from view, he found the words, pushing past his lips in a whisper.

"Happy birthday."

But the chance had gone, his voice lost in the wind, blowing loud across the rooftop, his cape keeping the chill from his body.

/

His eyes began to open, fluttering lids, slow and heavy, squinting against the glaring brightness overhead, squeezing shut a moment later, unable to process the light properly.

At first there was only numbness, all through him. But quick the sensation dissipated, replaced by subjugating pain, a suffocating soreness within his very bones.

His lips parted, dry, cracked and bleeding, his mouth feeling as though it were stuffed with cotton, a gargled noise pushing inadvertently up out of his throat.

Moments past, seeming to drag on as the pain worked its way up, in to his skull, throbbing and pounding against the inside, followed quickly by nausea, unrelenting and deep.

And only did he become aware of another presence in the room when he heard them shift down, feet dragging along the concrete of the floor, right beside his ear.

His eyes snapped open, too quickly, light flooding in, blinding him, and the sound of low laughter.

And then he felt a hand against his face, slapping him lightly along the cheek.

"Good morning Joker." Dr. Finius said, amusement in his voice. "It's nice to see you back with us."

Shapes began to return to his vision as his pupil's dilated, adjusting, and he saw the outline of the older man above him, followed soon by his features.

He was smiling, eyes glinting with unhidden relish at the state of his captive.

The Joker had only a moment to process all this before the doctor snapped out…

"Pick him up. Put him against the wall."

And he suddenly felt himself being grabbed from under his arms and dragged up, the motion abrupt, head spinning and light.

The nausea grew worse, and he would have thrown up if there were any liquid at all left in his stomach.

He felt himself being pushed back against the wall, and as the hands released their hold on him, he immediately began to slump, falling sideways.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, stay _with me_ here Joker." The doctor chuckled, reaching out and pulling him back up by the sleeve of his shirt.

He pressed a hand against the madman's chest, pushing him back harder against the wall before moving his grip to the Joker's hair, lifting his head straight, keeping him erect.

Dr. Finius regarded him with scrutiny.

"My, my, but don't you look _dreadful_!" He exclaimed in mock astonishment.

He then made a show of sniffing the air, face twisting in disgust.

"Oh, and in _terrible_ need of a bath. You smell thickly of body odor."

The Joker's eyes were still focusing, his mind a jumble of images and sounds, working furiously to organize and make sense of them.

He tried to swallow, the action almost impossibly difficult, painful, his throat searing as though on fire.

"I see my men were courteous enough to dress you again before leaving. That was kind of them, don't you think?"

And now it was coming back to him. What had happened. What had been done.

He remembered now slipping to the floor, backwards off the table after they'd finished with him. After what was an incalculable amount of time, and what he thought, if he hadn't lost count, had been the five of them taking three turns each.

He remembered thinking, as he went backwards, the ceiling was running away from him, flying higher. He couldn't remember the impact with the ground, though the acute pain through his lower half remained in the present.

He'd been unable to move after that, limp and lifeless on the floor.

And it had been only a few seconds more he had consciousness, before his absolute fatigue took him over, and he past in to darkness.

That, he gathered, must have marked the end of their fun, unless they'd continued to amuse themselves with his unconscious form.

It didn't matter anyway.

"I see the poison's at last worked through your system. It's most remarkable, I have to say, the fact it didn't kill you. You indeed possess a unique physiology. Certainly unlike any other I've encountered. Though I imagine, even still, it wasn't the most pleasant of experiences, despite your heightened resistance to the toxins affects. As I said before, it really may have been worse, given your body's refusal to shut down and spare you the agony of it."

With each moment past, the Joker's mind grew clearer, with it increased awareness of his condition, and the pain of it.

His expression remained flat, and again he attempted to swallow, trying to wet his throat.

"You have something to say?" Dr. Finius questioned, brows raised in expectancy as he watched the lunatic trying to work his throat muscles.

The Joker's mouth opened, still like that a moment before he made the attempt to speak.

"Uh… I… ve be… be…been thh-th-rough w-w-wor-orse…" He barely managed, his voice a broken up rasp, barely loud enough to hear, and with a concentrated effort, he worked his mouth up at the corners, forcing his lips in to an unmistakable smile, though faint it may have been.

"Have you?" The doctor seemed unfazed. "Then I dare say you've been through hell and back, because I can only imagine that to be a pain worse then what you've just experienced."

Again the Joker swallowed, growing more able now.

"And how did you enjoy your time with my men?" Finius went on. "I trust it to have been in the least memorable?"

The Joker's eyes shifted down a moment, noticing then the instrument in the doctor's free hand. A tazer.

His gaze lifted back to the older man's face.

"T… to be o-o-hon-nest D-Doc…" he paused, having momentarily to catch his breath, chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow bursts. "I h-hh-have to ec-ex-p-press m-my ddd-disa-p-pointment in th-their lll-lack of c-c-creativ-vity. It rr-really w-wasn't mmm-memorable a-at ah-all. N-n-nnnothing wo-worth-thy a-of nn-nnote."

And for a moment, the doctor regarded him silently, eyes narrowed in observation.

"Mmm, is that so?" He finally asked. "Well, I'll admit they aren't the most stimulating group of individuals I've known. But they'll do for getting the more heavy-handed jobs done. I'll give them that."

"Th-they'll aa-also b-blow your c-cover." The Joker replied.

"Excuse me?" Finius asked.

But the Joker said nothing to that, knowing it more effective not to elaborate, continuing only to smile.

He remembered the men saying they were going to hawk the film they'd taken. Something they were planning on keeping from their employer.

But Dr. Finius didn't have to know that.

The suggestion would be enough to work at his mind.

For a moment longer, the doctor watched him, his expression unchanging.

And at once he seemed to forget his question, eyes shifting down.

"Hmm." He started, shrugging, a sly smile sliding in to place. If what the Joker had said was bothering him, he wasn't letting it show. "Well, what I've really come to ask is…" again his gaze lifted, and he leaned in closer to the madman, pushing his head back against the wall. "are you ready to tell me about Batman?"

He ignited the tazer, the electrical current sparking to life.

And the Joker wheezed out laughter. Weak, but still it was there, his frame shuttering with the effort.

Dr. Finius only smirked now.

"You're still in copious amounts of pain, are you not boy?" He said.

But the lunatic's only response was his continue mirth.

"Well I'm sure this won't help any." The doctor continued, and in the next instant, he jammed the tazer deep against the Joker's side, sending a shockwave of electricity through his body.

The madman's laughter sputtered and cut, a sharp gasp tearing inadvertently from his throat, eyes going wide with the paralyzing pressure, what little strength he'd begun to feel in his limbs at once vanishing.

Dr. Finius watched him a moment. Watched as the current caused minor tremors through the thin man's form, heavy twitching in his fingers and arms, and along his face.

He released his hold on the Joker, uncurling his hand from his hair, watching further as the lunatic slid limp to the side, collapsing in a heap on the ground.

Laurence stood back, watching the display with a grim-set expression.

He felt sick, watching the Joker as he lay, convulsing on the ground, seeming barely to breathe, face and arms smeared in his own, dried blood, a mess of contusions and cuts.

He was becoming consumed by a sinking feeling, one of disturbance and dread.

None of the doctor's experiments had lasted so long as this. None of his other victims had survived past the first three days before breaking. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

The Joker was too willful, and it was now his very undoing.

The assistant knew this, deep down, was the thing Finius most desired. An excuse for continued "experimentation", as the Joker, after all, had a _choice_. He could stop this whenever he wished, simply by doing as the doctor asked of him.

But Laurence knew better.

The Joker didn't have a choice at all.

He couldn't escape his own condition. Could react in no way other then how he did.

He was a slave to his own apathy, his own inability to feel fear.

It wasn't a choice.

It was his very nature. The absence of self-preservation.

And now it became perverse, what was happening to him. Slowly murdered at the hands of an individual with absolute, cold calculation. A man in control of himself and his actions, destroying a man lacking the same. Lacking any, real will to survive.

Laurence couldn't help seeing it as it was.

Those sound of mind, taking easy advantage of a man plagued by sickness, so horribly damaged so as to be unable to even care for himself, unable even to feel indignation for his own humiliation and degradation.

It was horrific… sad…

And suddenly there was hatred in his heart, for himself, with the knowledge that, even in his realization, both his cowardice and greed would keep him from doing anything to help the Joker.

He would let him suffer, let him die. Let him be hampered by his mental illness, the crossed wiring of his brain keeping him from ever being able to now save himself from this.

And the self-hatred grew as the assistant compared himself to the man on the ground, shaking and gasping, barely alive anymore, defeated physically, utterly. Yet still beyond intimidation, beyond persuasion, when Laurence knew he himself would have given in for something as shallow as money, let alone the promise of his freedom and the ceasing of his torture.

There was something terribly pure about the Joker.

And now Laurence could think only how this was tragic.

And of the wrongness he felt, watching this mal-intent befall a creature of such ilk, of such terrible purity.

Knowing even still, there was nothing he would do, because no such purity lay within his own heart.

For several seconds, the Joker continued, trembling, soundless gasps pulling from his lips. And as the moments past, the current's affects dissipating, the use of his voice returned, the soundless gasps slipping in to choked out laughter.

"O-oh-h D-Do-oc…" he began, voice shaking with the effort. "p-please, eh… it ti-tick-ckles!"

And he continued to laugh, harsh wheezing between his mirth.

Finius frowned.

"Then you haven't learned your lesson, I see." He said.

The Joker's only response was the same.

And savagely, the doctor again buried the tazer in the thin man's side, holding it in place several seconds longer.

And again the Joker gasped out, again his body falling in to violent convulsions, the same, paralyzing pressure of electrocution pressing down on him, followed a minute later by the scene of before, the silent struggle for breath giving way to low laughter. Weaker in volume, but there all the same.

Over and over, this repeated, Dr. Finius asking between each attack the Batman's identity, the Joker responding only with laughter, growing more frail with each pass.

Until the madman barely moved on the floor, laughter so soft so as to be near soundless, and thick saliva formed in his mouth, pushing out now past his lips, down his chin.

The older man regarded him with cold eyes.

"Who is the Batman?" He asked again, voice emotionless.

And now he reached down, fisting his hand in the lunatic's hair, lifting his face from the ground.

"Tell me who he _is_."

He pressed the tazer directly beneath the Joker's jaw, pressing in hard against the soft flesh, not yet using it.

No reply came, and Finius pressed harder still.

"_Tell me_."

"O-k-kay! Ok-kay!" The Joker gasped, frame shaking badly. "I…. I'll t-tell y-you. Just pa-please, ss-s… stop."

The doctor's eyes narrowed, watching his captive closely.

"Really?" He asked. "You've had enough then?"

"Y-yes, pa-please, just… just ss-stop…"

The Joker's voice was desperate, filled with exhaustion and fragile, trembling the same as his body.

Finius smiled vaguely, leaning in close, lowering the tazer from under the thin man's jaw.

"Well then, let's hear it." He said, the sound of quiet triumph in his voice.

And the Joker sucked in sharply, trying to get air to his lungs.

"Ba-Batman… B-Batman i-is… i-is…"

The doctor leaned closer still, the lunatic's voice too quiet to otherwise hear.

"Batman is…" and a smile pushed up at the corners of the Joker's lips. "Batman!"

And immediately he again began laughing, near uncontrollably, his entire frame racked with his hysterics, though the sound only just came out audible.

The doctor tightened his grip in disgust, jerking the Joker's head up by the hair, pulling it at a severe angle. And without hesitation, he replaced the tazer under his jaw, sending a shock through the madman's skull.

And the Joker's face screwed up, agony etching hard across his features as abruptly his laughter cut.

It was like his head was imploding in on his brain, threatening to crush it.

And now he fell limp again, the currents once more leaving him paralyzed as Finius held the tazer against him for several seconds.

Until finally he pulled it away, letting go his grip, letting the Joker drop back to the ground.

He watched the lunatic with indifference as he shook violently, a kind of sputtering sound escaping his throat, like he was choking.

Laurence looked away, eyes casting to the ground, unable to stand the sight.

"Silly boy." Finius started, voice calm and quiet. "How needlessly you make yourself _suffer_."

It would take several seconds before the convulsions stopped, the Joker's breath coming harsh and shallow. Several seconds more before he had air well enough to again laugh, the sound still barely there.

And Dr. Finius continued to watch, expressionless.

"I… I've tt-told you the tt… truth D-Doct-tor Funb-bags." The Joker somehow managed. "B-Batman _is_ Batman. W-what pr-pretense he adopts d-during the da-daylight hours mm-matters nn-nothing. The m-mask doesn't make the… th-the m-man, b-but the other w-way around. A-and that's the h-honest truth D-Doc." He continued to grin, despite the still consuming pain, radiating inside his skull.

"Mmm, yes." Finius replied, suddenly pushing himself to his feet. "But it doesn't really change the fact of you knowing his given _name_, now does it? You refuse to give it, and so you'll suffer the consequences."

He turned to look at Laurence.

"Have him taken to the lab." He instructed, beginning to walk away.

"He… he's c-coming for you, you k-know."

The doctor stopped cold, turning back towards the Joker, glaring down at him.

"Come again?" He asked.

And still the Joker smiled.

"Hh-he's coming f-for you." He repeated.

Finius stepped quickly towards his captive, until he stood just above him.

"And who is _he_?"

The Joker's grin widened.

"Batman." He answered.

Dr. Finius laughed, his head throwing back.

"Don't be _ridiculous_ Joker. No one's coming to save you. No one knows you're even _here_." He smiled down at the lunatic. "Nor does anyone _care_. The man whose identity you so stubbornly protect is likely hoping as everyone else that you no longer inhabit the land of the living. And that, dear boy, is all your precious _loyalty_ will win you."

The Joker stared back, unblinking, saying nothing.

Until finally the older man again turned from him, striding back towards the door, Laurence motioning the men in to action.

And with ease they gathered the madman up, handling him as though he were nothing at all.

Nothing to fear from a man too weak to stand on his own.


	8. Chapter 8

**Next chapter guys. Hope you enjoy it. Again, thanks goes to my beta TheMadCapLaughs for all her help. Please remember to leave a review if you can!**

**Chapter 8:**

His fingers buried deep in the Joker's hair, pressing down hard against the back of his head, keeping him under.

And the Joker barely moved, no attempts to break free.

Finius couldn't tell if it was due to his simply being too weak, or absolute indifference, not caring that he was being drown. That each time the doctor held his head under the water, he held it for a little longer.

Now to the point the Joker fell completely limp, and Finius knew he was close to unconsciousness.

He buried his other hand in the back of the madman's shirt, pulling him from the tub.

He'd had his men bind the Joker's hands behind his back before starting, but he realized it hadn't even been necessary. The lunatic was, at this point helpless, weighing so little, and with such little strength, it was as though handling some child's rag doll.

A frail gasp tore from the Joker's throat, an involuntary reaction of his body needing oxygen as Dr. Finius tossed him aside, on to the ground.

He hit it hard, against his face and stomach, sputtering and choking as his lungs struggled for breath.

The doctor watched him with cold eyes. Unsurprised now as slowly the sounds turned to laughter, fragile and barely heard. Finius imagined the effort was using up what little air the Joker was able to gather, the action no doubt painful, but still he laughed anyway.

He bent down, beside the madman, close to his face.

"Are we enjoying ourselves, boy?" He asked in a sharp whisper, voice dripping with condescension.

The Joker's eyes were closed, feeling too spent now to even lift his lids.

He giggled lowly.

"S… so much f-fun…" he managed, voice barely audible.

The doctor smirked.

"Then let's go again, hmm?"

Again he buried his fingers in the Joker's hair, dragging him up by it and over the tub, pushing his head back down, under the water, the half- dozenth time he'd done so, and again the Joker barely moved, again he failed to struggle in the least.

Frustration gripped the doctor, and now he held the lunatic under for over a minute, pressing down on him with both hands, teeth grinding in concentration.

Until the surface of the water grew flat, save for a stray, few bubbles, and the Joker was again limp in his hands. And he knew now the madman had lost awareness.

He pulled him up, throwing him on to his back, the Joker lying unmoving on the ground, not breathing.

Finius moved to him, bending down and pounding hard against his thin chest, again and again until finally, a strangled choke rose up from the madman's throat, violent sputtering as water erupted out of his lungs, past his lips, followed by a sharp gasp.

"Nearly lost you there Joker." The doctor smiled, again fisting his hand in his hair. "Now we can't have that, not when I've yet to complete my research. There's still much to do."

And he stood, pulling the Joker up with him, dragging him across the space and dropping him at the feet of his men.

"Put him in the chair." He ordered. "I think that's enough of the light preparation."

The men complied, picking the Joker up, bodily off the floor and slamming him down in to the chair, another gasp rising up from him as it knocked what little air he had from his lungs.

"You…" Finius pointed to one of the larger men, thickly built, obviously powerful. "I want you to hold him. Make sure he doesn't move."

And the guard nodded, standing by as the others moved away.

The doctor approached the Joker, his mouth stretching in to a tight smile as the Joker watched him back, lids drooping with the effort of keeping his eyes open. He smiled in return, teeth smeared with dried blood, the lines in his face indicating the difficulty of the expression.

Finius put his hand in to his pocket, pulling out a surgical mask and placing it over his mouth, tying it at its back before reaching out, grasping gentle hold the lunatic's chin, leaning forward.

"Your teeth are in surprisingly good condition…" he began quietly. "considering your usual self-negligence. Is there some _reason_ for this?"

The Joker gargled out a chuckle.

"L… little se-secrete for ya Doc…" he began, hardly able to speak. "Th-they're mostly f-false. I lose em' r-regularly. H-hazards of the t-trade, ya know. But its something of a tr-trademark, and I w-wouldn't want to d-disappoint my p… public."

"Is that _right_?" Finius exclaimed, as though fascinated. "Well isn't that interesting. You say you've lost a lot of your teeth?"

Again the Joker laughed, half-wheezed.

"… L-lose em' all the time…" he said.

Dr. Finius' brow furrowed, leaning closer.

"_How_?" He asked.

"O-oh, y-you know, the u-usual…" the Joker replied. "B-Batsy punching me in the f-face, o-or smashing it ag-gainst the p… pavement." He giggled. "Or j-just general r-rot and decay. That tends to h-happen when you f-fail to brush. I think it was that rid-diculous s-song they made you sing as s-school children. That one about d-dental hygiene. J-just turned me off from the wh-whole thing."

"Mmm…" the doctor went on. "Ever had any teeth _pulled_ then?"

"Heehee, qu-quite a few Doc. Qu-quite a f-few."

"Ever without the benefit of _Novocain_?" He pushed, tightening his grip.

The Joker only chuckled.

"Wh-when circumstances d-dictate such." He answered. "One d-doesn't always have access to m-medical professionals. I've f-found the old s-string and doorknob trick w-works pretty good."

"Well then, there shouldn't be any great objection from you over this next procedure, should there?" He glanced towards his assistant. "Laurence, my tools?"

Laurence gave a nod, pushing aside his growing reluctance as he brought forward a trey, sat atop a rolling dolly, numerous instruments scattered over its surface.

"You know, I studied dentistry while living in Germany, a man of only 24 at the time." Finius smiled. "I've always found the intricacy of it fascinating. How _small_ the tools are…" he reached over, taking up one of the instruments. He looked then to the guard, standing by, giving him a nod.

And the man stepped forward, wrapping his forearm around the Joker's neck, burying it underneath the lunatics jaw and forcing his head back, holding him in a choking position.

"How… _delicate_ the work is." The doctor went on. And very suddenly he dug his fingers in to the madman's jowls, hard, and with the brief moment the Joker's mouth opened, Finius forced the sharp tool past his teeth, locking his jaw open and in place.

The guard tightened his arm around the lunatic's neck, pressing down hard on his windpipe, nearly chocking him.

"So you have a lot of implants, hmm Joker?" Finius went on, probing softly with the tool. "That would mean the nerves are gone. Not that it won't still hurt when we cut in to your gums. On the contrary, it will hurt a great deal. And, oh! Look at this, I see a considerable amount of decay here. So not _all _of them have yet been replaced. Though by the state of them, I can see they're needing to be." The doctor laughed. "What say you then we start with those? Get them… out of the way?"

The Joker fixed the doctor with his eyes, unable to speak with the man's forearm against his throat and his mouth forced wide.

Finius looked back, and he could see no fear there, no lines along the madman's features to indicate any hint of anxiety.

He only smirked.

"Yes, I think we'll start with those." He said.

He jammed the pick-like instrument hard in to a tooth he could see was mostly decay, and a shot of pain traveled down the Joker's jaw, up in to his skull. Sharp and hot.

He barely flinched, his gaze still upon the doctor's face.

Finius continued to smile, pulling the instrument from the Joker's mouth, replacing it on the trey and taking up a small drill.

"Now open wide, boy." He said. "I think with this one, we'll have to perform a root canal."

Once more he forced the tool in to the Joker's mouth, quickly locating the rotted tooth again.

He turned the drill on, and without hesitation, pressed in to his target, the sound of enamel chipping away, smoke from the friction rising in to the air.

The pain was immediate, engulfing, like someone slicing in to his jaw with a burning blade, and the Joker couldn't help his entire frame from tensing, going rigid against it.

"My goodness, the decay goes _deep_." Dr. Finius said, continuing to drill. "This most definitely will require the roots to be taken out."

The taste of his own blood covered his tongue, slipping down his throat as the doctor went deeper, his stomach churning with nausea.

Laurence and the guards watched, transfixed, unable to look away from it.

The Joker wasn't screaming, he wasn't crying, though the agony of what he was experiencing was easily apparent across his face. Blood seeped from his mouth, tiny particles of tooth zipping through the air.

When the tooth was very nearly gone, Finius reached for what looked line pins, stuck in a Styrofoam ball.

And when he began pulling the roots out, that's when Laurence looked away.

The Joker remained the same, his distress indicated only by the thick sweat now forming across his forehead, the lines of anguish etched deep in to his features and the tension in his limbs.

But he didn't scream… he didn't cry… he made no sound at all, beyond his labored breaths and near silent wheezing.

"I figure…" the doctor began talking again. "since you really haven't even _touched_ the food we've given you, you won't much miss the tools to chew with. It's of course your choice to die from starvation, if something else doesn't get you first. Rather a prolonged way to begin the process of expiration, but you haven't been making the most prudent of decisions since you've been with us, have you?"

The Joker couldn't hear him. He couldn't hear anything now but the overwhelming ringing in his ears, white noise, his vision blurring just the same.

This pain was ridiculous, he thought. But then, that was just the way nature intended it. So many nerves, so many receptors to _hurt_. The pain of living. If you were in pain, that meant you were alive. Another of her jokes.

Those people, they all feared death, but sweet irony, they feared life in equal measure, and all the dangers of surviving another day, all the worry of things going _wrong_.

Fear was pain. It was the worst kind of pain.

The absence of it in him was his great freedom. A companion he'd never known, but whose nature he'd always understood.

Pain which now drove the doctor and his men towards their actions, and they, so ignorant to it.

And he began to laugh. Weak. Shallow. Genuine. He laughed.

All the men looked on, silent, not really knowing what they were seeing. Not really knowing how to react.

/

He watched the groups of men from across the street, going in to what once had been an office complex, now abandoned, and from what he knew, the insides torn out, making one, large space.

It was a gathering spot for Gotham's lower tier criminals, henchmen and hired muscle, a place for men like that to boost their own ego's and pretend for a night they, like the so-called super villains of this city, could too have plans.

A week after his meeting with Bruce, Jason had been hanging out, undercover in one of the Narrows seedier bars, listening in for any information from the idiots who frequented there. These men were usually too dumb to keep their mouths shut, either wanting to brag or just being natural gossips. He'd been sitting at a corner table, head down as he clasped his drink, making sure to look the part of a lush, drowning in his own sorrows, when he'd heard a group of guys at a table, a couple of booths ahead.

"_Hey, you hear 'bout the Joker?" One of them began._

_At this, Jason looked up, eyes narrowing._

"'_bout him missing?" One of the others answered. "Yeah, I heard."_

"_So what do you think that's all about?" The first man asked._

_The second man shrugged._

"_You got me. Weird shit's been goin' down lately, seems to me. Maybe he just decided to lay low a while."_

_The first man shook his head._

"_Naaaw, I don't think so man. That ain't like the Joker, is it? He was on a tear, wasn't he? Makin' all kinds of trouble. The only thing that's ever stopped him from that is the Bat sendin' him back to Arkham. And there ain't been no word he's back there. He just… disappeared, from what I hear."_

_The second man's brow furrowed in contemplation, a sudden look of nervousness coming over his features. With hands slightly trembling, he brought his whisky to his lips, drinking it down in one swing. "Say, you don't think the Bat snapped, do ya? Finally killed the freak? That'd be real bad if he did."_

_Again his friend shook his head._

"_Can't be that." He said. "Everyone knows the bat don't kill. And what would make him do it now? He ain't never done shit before."_

_Jason felt his hands clench to fists. The morons didn't know how _right _they were._

"_Naw." The man continued. "I don't think it was the bat. Maybe it was that psycho girlfriend a' his. What'shername? Quinn somethin'. Maybe she finally had enough of his smackin' her around and decided to get a little payback."_

"_Come on man. Be serious!" The other man said. "That Quinn chick's dangerous, sure, but she ain't shit on the Joker. He'd kill her ass if she ever tried anythin' like that."_

"_Yeah, I guess you're right. Maybe that bitch she's always hangin' out with then? The plant lady?"_

_His friend nodded._

"_Could be, I suppose. She's pretty scary, what with those power's a' hers and stuff. But…" he shook his head. "Man, I don't think so. This is the _Joker _we're talkin' 'bout here. Don't nobody mess with the Joker. Not unless you're lookin' to die. It had to have been someone' big. Real big."_

"_But bigger then the Joker?" The first man sounded disbelieving. "Come on, you said it yourself. Don't nobody mess with the clown. You'd have to be as crazy as he is, and nobody's that nuts."_

_Suddenly the bartender was at their table, with their second round._

"_You know what I heard?" He said, and the two men looked up, Jason listening closely._

"_What?" One of them asked._

_The bartender began setting their drinks down, wiping his hands on his aprons towel. _

"_I heard there's some kind of auction goin' down. Tomorrow night, at the old Hestin building. Guys puttin' it together say anyone who's ever had a problem with the Joker, anyone who's feet he's ever stepped on would be real interested. Say it'd be worth their time to come down and check out what they're sellin'."_

_Jason's interest piqued._

"_Well what're they sellin'?" The first man asked. "His head on a stake?" He laughed._

_The bartender shrugged._

"_You got me. There ain't been no more word on what it is. Just that anyone who don't like the Joker, which lets face it, that's everyone, they'd be interested in what they're sellin'."_

"_So what time's the auction?" The second man questioned._

"_Heard it's gonna be midnight, tomorrow. All you got to do is show up and whoever pays the highest price wins what they're sellin'." The man laughed. "I'd go, but I ain't got no cash, ya know."_

"_Yeah, us neither." The first man said. "Too bad. I'd like to know. Maybe we'll show up just to see, even if we ain't gonna bid."_

And that was all Jason had had to hear. He'd left immediately afterwards, the wheels turning in his brain.

Whatever this was, he was going to find out.

No one, after all, had more of a beef with the Joker then he did.

He'd been standing here the last twenty minutes, watching, counting exactly 30 men who'd gone in.

When he saw the doorman finally seal the place up, that's when he made his move, keeping to the shadows as he approached the building.

He knocked on the door, waiting, a sly smile sliding in to place as he pictured the looks of surprise he was any moment to be met with.

/

Getting in had been simple enough. He'd taken the doorman and three guards out, and nobody inside the next room had even known.

The door to that room had been left slightly ajar, and he'd stood outside a few, long minutes, listening in, wanting to know what this "item" was they were selling.

Everyone by then had settled down, and someone at the front of the room began to speak.

"Gentlemen…" they started. "You all know why you're here tonight. And we ain't too interested in making this some long winded affair. All of you's, I'm gonna assume, have some kinda issue with the _Joker_."

The room erupted in to loud hollers, men screaming and shouting threats, all aimed at the Joker, proclamations that they wished the madman were there, so they could kill him, tear him limb from limb.

Jason rolled his eyes.

"_Idiots_." He thought.

They had no idea what the Joker was, no idea how easily he would kill them all.

Their bravado wouldn't be so much had the lunatic really been there. They may have claimed to wish it, but in truth it was the last thing they desired.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, _please_!" The man at the front shouted, trying to get them to again calm down. "Your anger is understood. It's been too long that freak's run roughshod over guys like us. And what the hell for? He ain't nothin' but a skinny little shit. Looks like he'd break in two just from blowin' at him too hard."

Everyone laughed.

The man holding the tape smiled.

"Well, me and my boys here figured, it's 'bout time someone got a little payback on the clown. And so that's precisely what we did. This… this here's a tape, and _on_ this tape, well…" the man paused, chuckling. "let's just say there's some pretty satisfying footage of the freak-show gettin' what's been comin' to him all these years. And whoever's willin' to pay the highest price, you'll get to sleep a little better tonight."

Jason peered through the space between the door and frame, and saw the man, holding up an old VHS tape.

"We're supposed to believe you? That tape could be blank!" Someone in the group shouted.

"Easy, easy!" The man up front said. "After bidding ends, we've got a TV set up, and we're gonna show you all a small clip, so's you know we're bein' honest."

Jason smiled.

Well, that was something even better then he imagined.

Footage of the Joker getting his ass kicked?

He'd pay to see that.

But as it was, he was just going to take it instead.

Without further hesitation, he burst in to the room, and immediately the men scattered, shouts of confusion moving through them, and then fear as they saw who it was.

"Sorry to bust in on you like this, _gentlemen_…" Jason announced, his tone mocking, pulling a large, combat knife from its holster as his hip. "But I'm afraid they'll be no exchanging of money tonight. See…"

And he began forward in to the room.

"I'll be having that tape there. I feel I have a proper right to it, and all of you, well…" he laughed. "You're just going to have to deal with it."

He saw one of the men start, going for a gun in their inside, coat pocket, and without a moments delay, Jason turned towards them, throwing the knife, hard and fast, the blade burying almost to the hilt in the man's chest.

And the men fell like a bag of stones to the floor, dead.

"Oh, I'm _sorry_." Jason smiled, his eyes barely on the man a moment before moving back over the others. "Anyone _else_ have any protests?"

Like clockwork, they came at him.

But the attack didn't last long, nor their bravery.

He had already half of them unconscious or dead before they could even begin to pull their weapons, most of the rest then fleeing from the place. And he really didn't care, eyes focused at the group of men at the front, specifically, the one holding the tape, who he saw was now trying to shove the thing inside his jacket and make a run for it.

"_No can do, dumb ass_." He thought, leaping for him.

In seconds he had the man off his feet, slammed down against his back, the four others throwing themselves at the door. He could have stopped them, easy enough, but he couldn't be bothered, letting them go as he buried his fists in the jacket of the man underneath him.

"Pa-please, don't k-kill me!" The man practically sobbed. "I d-didn't… didn't d-do nothin'! I s-swear! Please!"

Jason's mouth twisted in disgust.

All these men were cowards. That's all they were.

If it was true what this guy had said, that they'd somehow gotten the drop on the Joker and beaten the ever loving shit out of him, Jason wondered _how_.

Punks like this, the Joker would take out in five minutes flat, much as it annoyed him to admit. But he'd made the mistake once before of underestimating the clown, and he'd paid for it with his life.

He didn't make that mistake anymore.

He thought briefly this must all have something to do with the Joker's disappearance, and that Bruce would no doubt want the tape.

But fuck him, Jason thought. He wasn't getting it.

Maybe the fact the Joker had been missing meant it was a snuff film. Even better. He hoped it was footage of them shooting the sick fuck in the head.

He glowered at the man, who now had tears streaming down his stupid face, as he continued to blubber and plead for his life.

"Shut up." Jason said. And then he reared a fist back, smashing it down hard across the fools temple, knocking him unconscious.

His "friends" had abandoned him, already gone from the place and running on the streets. Along with everyone else, the room now totally empty.

Jason unzipped the man's jacket, grabbing hold the tape and standing.

"Thanks buddy." He smiled down at him. "You sure are generous, giving this to me free of charge!"

He chuckled at the man's unmoving, unresponsive form.

"Just believe me when I tell you, I have more right to this tape then anyone else in the place."

He examined the cassette a moment, frowning.

"Who the hell uses VHS anymore?" He wondered aloud. And then he remembered what the guy had said, about them showing a clip, and he looked around, spotting a shabby looking television set in the corner, a VCR showing prominent beneath it.

"Ah ha." He said, moving for it.

It took him only a moment to unhook the thing, holding it under his arm.

He took a moment then to look around, to see if there were anything else in the room he should take interest in.

There wasn't. Just a bunch of knocked over chairs and a bunch of unconscious or dead bodies.

And without another word, he turned, heading for the exit, carrying the tape close at his side.

/

He was going to enjoy this. He was going to enjoy this so much, he thought, rummaging around in his fridge.

He'd set the VCR up, hooking it to his TV set, feeding the tape halfway in to its mouth.

Now all he needed were some refreshments and he'd be in for an evening of entertainment.

His mind wandered with what might be on the tape.

He imagined the Joker having the wholly hell kicked out of him, though the idea of those losers back at the Hestin building being the ones to do it somehow didn't sit quite right with him.

He still couldn't quite understand how that could be, how a bunch of low-life punks could ever get their hands on the madman and hand him his ass.

Maybe it wasn't them, Jason thought. Maybe someone had given the tape to those idiots and told them to auction it for them, to keep from getting caught.

That seemed more likely. And wasn't an unusual occurrence in Gotham.

He guessed he'd find out once he put the tape in.

Maybe it was just footage of the Joker getting shot in the head.

The psychopath was reckless, always had been, and Jason hadn't thought it unlikely that, someday, he'd meet his end in some unspectacular fashion like that, just some street punk pointing a gun at him and blowing his brains out.

A smile curled at his lips as he thought of the Joker begging, crying for mercy, to be let go. How ironic would that be? The guy criminals told stories about to scare each other, whimpering like a little bitch.

Of course, Jason had never seen it.

Even that time he'd kidnapped the son of a bitch, the lunatic had done nothing the whole time but laugh, his expression never seeming to change from that shit eating grin he always had plastered to his face.

Even when he'd been beating the bastard with that crowbar, the Joker hadn't cried out or shown any kind of fear.

Jason still remembered being pissed about that. He'd wanted to make the Joker scream, to hear him plead.

But he hadn't.

So he doubted there'd be anything like that on the tape.

Still, he wondered if there'd be any indication of how the Joker had come to be in such a position.

Surely, anyone coming at the clown who wasn't as thoroughly trained as either himself or any other member, or former member, of the Bat family, was going to get hurt, most likely anyway. The Joker was vicious as they came, and Jason knew not to judge him on his fragile appearance. The bastard was strong, and fast, and knew how to fight well for someone who'd never taken any sort of lesson.

He must have taken at least several of them out before being overwhelmed, if that's in fact what happened.

And even after, he must have put up one hell of a fight.

You didn't just put someone like the Joker down. The madman was too full of pride and high self-regard to ever let himself be easily handled.

Jason grabbed a can of beer from the shelf as he heard the ding of the microwave, indicating the popcorn he'd put in was ready.

Closing the fridge door with his foot, he went to retrieve it.

"Movie night." He laughed. "Don't get enough of those anymore."

Pouring the popcorn in to a bowl, he then headed for the living room.

He could hear the residents above him having sex and he rolled his eyes.

This place sucked, he thought. Cheap ass tenement buildings. But the rent was cheap, and the landlords didn't ask any questions. So this was where he stayed.

He'd move again in about a month.

It was never safe to stay in one place for too long.

Bending down to the VCR sat on the floor in front of the television, he pushed the tape in, hoping he'd hooked the thing up right. He hadn't used one in years.

And then quickly he rose, falling in to the recliner he had set up, putting it back.

Glancing down at the remote, he found the volume button and turned it up high, resting the bowl of popcorn in his lap, his other hand wrapped round his beer.

He popped it, waiting. For several, long seconds, the screen was black, only the sound of static coming through, and briefly Jason thought there would be nothing on the tape, annoyance riling in the pit of his stomach at the notion.

But then suddenly the image flickered to life, sound blaring through, and the in and out blurring of someone trying to focus the lens.

When finally the picture came clear, Jason was met with the image of the Joker, strung up by his arms, tied by rope at his wrists, wrapped around piping along a ceiling.

"So it's true then." He said quietly, leaning slightly forward.

Whoever was operating the camera began to zoom in, and Jason saw the madman was unconscious, and that there was a thick layering of dried blood, covering his arms.

His face was an absolute wreck, swollen and cut open, a mass of deep bruising.

"Shit, they really got to you good, huh Joker?" Jason muttered to himself.

"_Jesus fuckin' Christ man! What the fuck's that smell_?" Someone on the tape finally spoke.

"_Fuck man…__fuck__! Why do we always gotta deal with this shit? I think… Ahh hell, the fuckin' freak shit his pants_!"

"_Well the boss said he might_." Someone else spoke.

"_That don't make it any less disgustin'. I mean__look__at him, damn. Vomit all over his shirt, piss runnin' down his legs. Fuckin' disgustin'._"

Jason's eyes narrowed.

Okay, this was… weird.

As the camera moved in closer, he could indeed see bile all down the front of the Joker's shirt, and dark stains across the front of his pants.

Had the Joker really _pissed_ himself? Really shit his pants?

Jason chuckled slightly.

No fuckin' way. This was gonna be even better then he thought.

Maybe the clown wasn't as much of a bad mother fucker as he liked to pretend.

_"Yeah, but orders are orders Tommy. We gotta clean him up, and then we can do whatever we want. Remember?"_

_"Yeah, I remember Rich. But now I don't even wanna touch him."_

So someone else was behind this then? No surprise. Those men he'd taken this tape from hadn't seemed capable enough to steal candy from a baby, let alone take the Joker out.

Someone asked if the Joker was awake, and finally one of them stepped in to view of the camera.

It wasn't one of the men he'd seen, so he'd assumed right. They must have given the tape to those other losers and told them to sell it, promising them a cut of the profits.

The man on screen reached up, slapping the Joker hard across the face. Then two times more, and the lunatic began to stir.

Jason felt a kind of anxious excitement as he watched the madman's lids lift, slow, as though he was having a difficult time.

"Oh, this is good." He said. "This is so good."

But quickly the excitement was replaced by confusion as he saw the unfocused look in the Joker's eyes, and then watched as a thick, foamy saliva drooled out from his slackened lips.

"_The hell Joker_." He thought. "_They got you drugged or something_?"

Jason had thought none of that stuff really worked on the lunatic.

The men on the tape continue bickering, proclaiming their disgust, and now another man stepped in to view, again not recognizable from the group at the Hestin building, telling the others to deal with it.

He pulled out a knife, beginning to cut the ropes around the Joker's wrists.

Jason kept his eyes focused on the madman, growing more and more confused at the state of him. He was shaking. Enough for the camera to pick up, his head slumped forward, like he was too weak to lift it on his own.

Jason found himself too riveted to the screen to even notice the beer and popcorn he'd prepared.

It took a few moments for the man to slice through the rope, it obviously tied tight around the Joker's wrists, tight enough to cut off the flow of blood circulation, keeping him from being able to slip out by breaking or dislocating his thumbs.

So whoever had done this obviously knew something of the Joker's panache for escape artistry.

On the final pass of the knife through the rope, the Joker collapsed, immediately falling to the floor.

The camera picked up a gasp from the lunatic, and Jason watched as more of that same, thick saliva escaped the clown's lips, only this time there was blood mixed with it, fresh and bright, and Jason felt his brow furrow, a kind of strange tension building in the pit of his stomach.

There was something weird about this. Something didn't… feel right.

But he pushed the feelings aside, continuing to watch.

He could see the Joker trying to move, the effort weak and ineffective, barely seeming like more then the tremor which still ran clearly through his frame.

One of the men laughed, telling him to get up, mocking him as he nudged the Joker with his foot.

The Joker didn't respond, and the man grew angry, screaming at him now to get up, kicking him hard in the ribs.

Jason could hear the blow, watching as it nearly turned the Joker on to his back, watching as the madman then heaved, vomiting violently on to the floor, a moment later, doing it again, and the men in the room laughing.

It suddenly occurred to Jason what seemed strange.

The Joker wasn't talking, wasn't laughing, wasn't really doing anything.

He seemed… lifeless, almost, though clearly, that wasn't the case.

"What's with you?" Jason asked out loud, leaning closer to the screen.

_"Let's just get his clothes off, get the shit wiped off him." _One of them spoke._ "Tommy, help me here. You get his pants, I'll get his shirt."_

For a brief moment, they argued over who was going to do what, but it was quickly resolved, and the two men came in to view of the camera again, one of them picking the Joker up by the torso.

The same feeling of unease returned as Jason watched the Joker fall back against the man, completely limp.

All he was wearing was a thin looking, short sleeved shirt and a pair of drawstring pants.

_"He ain't talkin' as much as usual." _Someone said, another noting that they didn't think he could.

The men's faces were twisted in disgust as they began to strip the Joker naked.

And it was as his clothes were removed, Jason was met with a feeling of absolute shock.

"What the fu…" he nearly whispered, seeing the Joker's condition.

His body was nothing but a mass of bruises, deep contusions and lacerations, not an inch of his white skin visible through the black and blue and red and yellow. The rest of him covered in sores, evidence of his being restrained in one spot for a prolonged period.

Jason's eyes moved over the madman's form, taking it in.

He was emaciated, wasting away it seemed, every one of his ribs visible, the bones of his hips and joints showing pronounced, seeming covered only by skin.

He'd been beaten badly, and repeatedly, that was obvious, and very apparently starved.

And now Jason wasn't feeling very excited. Now he was feeling unlikely reservation.

Still, he couldn't look away.

There was fecal matter smeared over the Joker's lower half, and piss.

Jason could see his eyes moving, lifting and beginning to focus more. But he still he lay limp, failing to respond as he was picked up and flipped on to his stomach.

There was no emotion on his face even. No anger or amusement, no fear or outrage. Only the deep lines set about his eyes and mouth told the tale of his being in great pain. But he made no indication of it otherwise.

He didn't move as the men spread his legs apart and began sponging at him, cleaning him off, didn't seem to react at all as they turned him on his back and did the same to his front.

"What the hell are you doing Joker?" Jason asked. "You're just gonna lie there?"

The men had finished and taken their hands off the Joker, and Jason watched the clown trying to roll over, on to his front.

Was he trying to get up?

It wasn't working, the lunatic failing again and again, and the man working the camera began to laugh, alerting the others.

And then they all began to laugh, and Jason's mouth pulled in to a frown.

They were such _idiots_. They _repulsed_ him.

And suddenly he was taken by confusion. Why the hell should he be feeling disgust towards these men? Certainly, they were low-life losers, but what the hell did he care if they were doing this to the Joker? He'd be damned if he couldn't admit the clown deserved every bit of it.

Still, everything about this now seemed off.

He'd never seen the Joker seem so… helpless.

Even when he'd had him, the psychopath had been cracking jokes and laughing, he'd been fighting _back_, even if only through words.

One of them men picked the Joker up, easily, making it obvious the clown weighed nothing, slamming him on to his stomach, and again the Joker threw up.

Jason watched him struggling to push himself up then, unable to, and he was consumed by a feeling of wrongness.

This wasn't the Joker… this wasn't… what he knew the man to be.

He seemed suddenly like a…

He shook his head from the thought.

No, the Joker wasn't that. And Jason would never allow himself to think of him as such.

The men began conversing, talking about getting tools and instruments, and then someone left the room, obviously to retrieve them.

They continued to laugh at the Joker, one of them again kicking him in the stomach, blood spraying visibly past the Joker's lips as he collapsed back down.

And they continued to do this, repeatedly, Jason watching the Joker each time trying to push himself up, each time failing.

He didn't understand this, didn't understand what the Joker was doing. What was the point of trying to get up like this? It was only giving the men greater fuel to attack and laugh at him. He was only showing them how weak he was, and so urging on their confidence.

"Stupid clown." He muttered, still unable to look away, continuing to watch.

It was when the men began putting the Joker in to sexually explicit positions that Jason began to feel sick.

And when one of the men began touching him, molesting him, that was when Jason began to shout at the screen.

The Joker was doing nothing, sitting there, limp, arms hanging dead at his side as he was kept on his knees by a dog collar.

His face remained blank, emotionless, eyes staring ahead at seemingly nothing.

This wasn't the Joker. Not the man Jason knew. That man… depraved as he was, twisted as he was, he still was full of energy, full of… of _life_.

And he was a _fighter_. Jason knew that. He had to be, coming through all the situations he had. A survivor.

But he was doing nothing here. Nothing to resist these men, nothing in his face to show he even _cared_.

"For God's sake man, what are you DOING?" Jason screamed. "Fight BACK! Give me another reason to hate you!"

But the Joker continued to do nothing, even as the man holding the collar lifted him up and began to choke him. The Joker only let him, not even attempting to lift his arms and relieve the pressure.

He was just going to let himself _die_!

Jason couldn't believe this, couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Was the man really this sick?

He'd always thought it was some sort of act, a ruse. Some sort of role he played to scare people. He'd never thought the Joker was nearly as insane as he seemed. He'd thought that was just a convenient way of keeping himself out of prison.

But this… this was insanity, this was madness.

No person in their right mind would allow this to happen without at least a show of _something_, anything to indicate they realized what was being done to them. No one in their right mind would show such blatant disregard for _themselves_.

It wasn't… wasn't _normal_, wasn't _okay_. The way the Joker was just hanging there, unresponsive, face blank, eyes almost dead.

Wasn't the Joker supposed to think the world of himself? Wasn't he supposed to think he was the greatest thing ever, only Batman being his equal? Wasn't that what he was always _saying_?

Then why the hell was he so utterly _passive_?

Someone who thought well of themselves, someone who cared about themselves, they wouldn't act that way, they wouldn't let anyone treat them like this.

The things they were doing to him… it was too much, nausea stirring in Jason's stomach at the sight.

"Fight back." He repeated, his voice softer.

And Jason couldn't deny it now, the feeling of unease which had grown in to absolute horror.

This wasn't right. This wasn't okay.

Bruce's words suddenly echoed in his mind…

_"He's_sick_Jason. Mentally unwell. People can't help the way they're born."_

It was true.

The Joker wasn't a monster.

He was a man, riddled by mental illness.

Stricken by an inability to care, even about himself.

The same disregard he had for people, he also had for himself.

It wasn't a _choice_, wasn't a decision he had made.

He'd been born unable to grasp a sense of worth, neither in him or in anyone, or anything, else.

For the first time, Jason realized the tragedy of that.

Realized how the Joker must suffer, how very joyless he must be, to never be able to see value in anything, to never be able to think what he did or who he was, or what anyone did _to_ him, was of any consequence or significance. That everything was for naught, and would never amount to anything real. That it would always mean nothing.

To see the world that way, to see life that way, as so totally hopeless, unable, simply _unable_ to see it any other way, Jason couldn't imagine that kind of pain.

He was… he _was_ a victim.

A victim of his own mind, unable to escape it, to break free.

Jesus, he couldn't even _protect_ himself. Not really.

Because how did you protect yourself when you didn't even care if you were being attacked?

When the men threw the Joker over the table, pushing him down on its surface, on to his stomach, pinning his arms, that's when Jason stood from his chair, the bowl of popcorn falling from his lap, scattering on to the floor, the can of beer slipping from his hand.

And he was frozen in place, staring unblinking at the screen as the lens focused in on the Joker's still blank face, his eyes looking at nothing, in them nothing as over and over, he was raped.

Until finally they finished with him, letting him go, and he slipped backwards off the table, to the floor, motionless and limp.

Soon after that, he had passed out, the picture staying on the screen only moments more, then going black, followed by white, static snow.

And the nausea that had been building in Jason's stomach erupted, working its way fast up his throat.

He broke for the bathroom, banging in to the door on his way through, barely making it to the toilet before the vomit exploded past his lips, violent and thick. And he sank to his knees, leaning against the seat, head resting against his arm.

And it would take him several seconds then to notice at all he was trembling.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey guys! New chapter! It's a long one, and again, just a warning, pretty graphic. I want to thank everyone who read and reviewed last chapter. Again, I appreciate more then I can say. I also just want to say thanks to MSRA for your well thought out and insightful reviews. I'd love to respond to you, but you'd have to sign in for me to. And as always, thanks to TheMadCapLaughs for all her inspiration. **

**Please remember to leave a review for this chapter if you can guys and hope you enjoy!**

**Chapter 9:**

He hadn't even heard them come in. Hadn't heard the door open, or the footsteps across the floor, or their loud and thoughtless laughter. He was lying flat on his stomach, face pressed to its side, against the concrete. So he hadn't _seen_ them either.

He only became aware of them when he felt one of their hands fist in his hair and pull him up, and the thought ran briefly through his head that maybe he'd lost his senses. He always knew when people were around. He always knew, was always on to them.

So he must have lost his senses, he thought, because there was no way otherwise they could get that close without him knowing.

An inaudible chuckle pushed past his lips, nothing but air as he thought of it. Deaf, dumb and blind Joker. He'd have to get _really_ creative to be a challenge to Batsy now.

The notion shattered though as he felt himself hauled up, the roots of his hair pulling painfully at his scalp, followed fast by the men's voices, seeming at once impossibly loud, hurting his ears. Agony came crashing down, all over him, all over his body, and it occurred to him suddenly he hadn't even noticed until now, that somehow he hadn't noticed anything.

There was the sensation of dizziness as he was spun around and pushed back, cracking his head against the wall behind him, and the heavy pressure of someone's hand against his chest, fingers still curled in his hair, keeping his head up.

His eyes blinked rapidly, blinded a moment by the influx of light. He must have had them closed then. He hadn't realized that either. They adjusted slowly, met only with blurred images, the deformed shape of a face in front of his. Eventually they would begin to regain focus, and with it, greater acuteness of feeling.

His mouth felt ruined, blood-filled and shredded, consumed by a pain at once both sharp and dull. His tongue moved about, all copper and empty spaces.

He hadn't been sure how many teeth the doctor had taken. He hadn't been counting.

His body had given in after a while, and he'd passed out. Though he was sure the doctor had removed a good two thirds before that happened. Eventually he'd just started pulling, not bothering with the drill, and the Joker supposed he must just have lost his patience, or something like that. It all seemed a bit foggy and he hadn't really been able to hear what anyone was saying.

He was certain though he'd been back here several hours, in the least. At some point they'd put him back, and he'd woken alone.

And he was certain it had been several hours. He thought.

Certain at least that they'd beaten him again while unconscious. There was the agony of deep, freshly bruised skin, broken capillaries and ruptured insides.

He was bleeding from within.

Internal damage which wouldn't stop now.

He stared at the face in front of him, its features gradually coming in to view. There was the feeling of blades in his throat, like dull and rusted razors each time he tried to swallow.

The blood was making him sick as it ran down in to his stomach.

The face in front of him was talking, though for a long, few moments, the words remained unintelligible.

Eventually, with its features, the voice too came in to focus, and he saw it was one of the men from before.

And he was talking, pure amusement in his eyes, across his lips pulled in to a smirk.

"Hey, freak-show!" he snapped his fingers in the Joker's face. "Anyone home?" He laughed, and there was the sound of others, laughing with him. "You don't look so good funny man."

It would take several seconds for the Joker's brain to process the words, and when he finally had, he gargled a laugh, blood seeping out his mouth as he slurred…

"I… don't f… feel s… so g-good." His lips pulled in to a faint smile, his voice nothing more then a cracked whisper, barely there at all.

The man holding him up reached out, digging his fingers between the Joker's lips and forcing them apart.

"Whew, would ya look at _that_?" He exclaimed. "The boss didn't leave you with nothin', did he? Check this out fella's!"

He moved to the side so the others to see, and the men crowded around, bending down to look.

"Shiiit, that's all gums right there!" Lucas chuckled.

"How can ya even tell?" Angel asked. "All I see is blood."

"Look." Rich answered, jamming his thumb up, in to the Joker's gums. Hot pain sliced through, lines of stress forming along the madman's face. "All gone." Rich continued.

"So much for that scary grin a yours, huh bozo?" Tommy smirked. "Oooo, I'm sooo scared, big bad Joker and his toothless face!"

They all laughed, amused with themselves.

The Joker watched them back, again it taking some moments for his brain to process what they'd said, what they were laughing at.

And then he began to laugh along, the sound so weak it took the men several seconds to realize it.

Their own mirth drained quickly, Rich tightening his hold in the lunatic's hair, ramming his head back.

"Whatch'u laughin' at _clown boy_?" he spat. "You think it's funny?"

And the Joker continued to chuckle, the sound hardly there, more the effort rattling his frame giving it away.

"I th… think… yo… you're fff… funny." He managed, voice fragile and wavering.

Rich's face twisted in hatred, and again he rammed the madman's head backwards, cracking his skull against the concrete wall.

Everything exploded in to spinning circles, pressure ripping through his head, down his spine.

"Think _that's_ funny _faggot_?" Rich hissed. "C'mere!" He grabbed the Joker underneath his arms, picking him up from the floor and moving him around. "Hey Tommy, catch!" He pushed the lunatic roughly away from him, in to the other man's arms, and Tommy reacted, grabbing hold the thin man's falling form, spinning him around again and shoving him across the space.

The Joker collapsed immediately, unable to hold himself up, crashing to the ground, hard against his face.

And he had no time to gauge his bearings before he was surrounded by the five men, and they began taking turns kicking him, in the ribs, against his lower back and in to his stomach. Over and over, until he began vomiting up blood, thick and bright against the dirty floor.

"Piece of shit…" Rich muttered, the rest of them watching as the madman heaved and shuttered below them, his entire frame trembling with the violence of the motion. "Think I'm funny _now_!" He buried his boot once more in the thin man's abdomen, lifting him from the ground as he did. And a strangled gasp tore from the Joker's throat, the air stolen from his lungs.

"Hey, I got an idea!" Lou started, kneeling down and burying his hand in the Joker's hair, pulling him up. Still the lunatic choked and hacked, rivulets of blood hanging from his lip, mixed in with thick saliva. "Why don't we burn his hair off 'for we start anything else?" Lou reached in to his pocket, pulling out a flip top lighter.

Tommy began to chuckle.

"How're we gonna put him out though? The boss'd be mad if we burned him to death on accident."

"I'll go get some buckets of water." Lucas offered, heading for the cell's door.

"Make it nice and _cold_ Lucas!" Angel shouted after him.

And the man only nodded as he disappeared from the room.

"Should'a told him to make it scalding." Rich said, crouching down to look the Joker in the face. He reached out, sinking his fingers in to the madman's jowls, pressing in hard. "You think I'm funny now, bitch?" He asked, voice seething and low.

The Joker was still hacking, retching as more blood forced its way up his throat and out his mouth

But his eyes lifted to the man in front of him, and with great effort, he replied, smiling faintly…

"… A… g-g… great amu… amusem-ment." He wheezed out, trembling laughter.

Rich backhanded him immediately, making sure the knuckles caught the Joker across the nose, blood instantly flowing from it.

And then he stood, turning towards the door.

"I'll be back." He said.

"Where you goin'?" Angel asked.

"To get that scalding water." Rich replied flatly, not stopping as he left the cell.

"Ohh, ho, ho!" Angel laughed, looking down, Lou still holding the Joker by the hair. "Don't sound too good for you, freak."

"Here, lemme have him." Tommy came in, getting on his knees behind the Joker and wrapping his hands underneath the madman's arms, pulling him back to fall against his chest.

The Joker was limp against him, too weak to pull away, to even lift his arms.

Tommy took hold his wrist, lifting his hand and making it wave.

"Hi everybody!" The man mocked. "I'm the Joker, and I like dick!"

The other two laughed, nearly doubling over.

"Check this shit!" Tommy continued. "Lou, get his pants off."

"What for man?"

"Just get em' off. I wanna try somethin'."

Lou shrugged, coming forward, and the Joker watched him, unable to react, to do anything at all physically as the man came nearer.

He could talk to him.

He could always do that…

But as he opened his mouth to speak, he felt a hand clamp tight over it, Tommy pulling him from behind, pinning him back, his other arm coming up and crossing over the Joker's chest, solidifying the hold.

"No talking freak-show." He laughed. "We're wise to yer game. None of that Hannibal Lector shit."

Lou smirked.

"Yeah, stupid clown. Too bad we didn't tell Rich to grab that ball gag again while he was at it."

He knelt down, digging his fingers between the waistband of the Joker's pants, pulling them down his hips and off completely in one, swift motion, tossing them aside.

"So now what?" Lou asked, looking at Tommy, ignoring the Joker's eyes on him.

"Put his dick in his hand." Tommy said. "Make him jerk himself off."

Lou laughed.

"Really?"

"Yeah man. If we couldn't get him to bust doin' it ourselves, maybe if he's touchin' himself. You know how these ego-maniac types are."

"Well if ya think so." Lou continued chuckling.

He reached out, between the Joker's legs, taking hold of him, his other hand grasping the lunatic's wrist. He closed the thin man's fingers round himself, wrapping his hand over the Joker's own, forcing it to pump up and down.

"Come on Joker…" Tommy leaned in against his ear, talking softly. "Bust one out for us, huh? I know you got it in you."

The Joker gave no response, no reaction, only continuing to stare at the man in front of him, still and unblinking.

"Come on Princess!" Lou chuckled. "Lemme guess, this is about the only kinda action you've seen, right? Cause I know no ones ever really hit that. You're too much of a disgustin' freak. But you gotta get relief somehow. So how many times a day you do it? You look like the five to ten type. Just sittin' there, rubbin' one out every couple hours."

Tommy and Angel laughed, watching with exhilarated eyes, the Joker unable to do anything now, unable even to speak.

His own eyes gave nothing away, cold and without expression.

He thought of how obscene the man's face was, big and stupid, like their laughter. They made fun of him, but they were too moronic to realize they were actually making fun of themselves.

Hypocrisy… hypocrisy… he _hated_ hypocrisy.

Hated it most of all when its perpetrators remained ignorant to themselves.

But it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

They were laughing at him.

But the universe was laughing at them.

And whether they knew it now or never, it would always be too late.

They couldn't accept the joke, and so they could never, really be _in_ on it.

Lou continued to jerk him with his own hand, their laughter still bellowing out.

Fatigue caught up.

The Joker could feel his body shutting down on him. It wasn't working anymore. It seemed too much even to keep his eyes open, his lids beginning to fall as his vision again started blurring. And with it his hearing, sounds growing distant, indiscernible.

He would die soon.

He knew that.

He wondered if Batman would ever find his body.

Probably not.

They'd probably cut it up and throw it in the river.

He wondered if Batman had thought of him at all, if he'd wondered what had happened.

He was sorry if he'd disappointed him.

He never wanted to disappoint the Bat.

"His eyes just closed." Lou chuckled. "I think he's enjoyin' it."

"Hee." Tommy laughed. "I knew he was some ego-perv."

The Joker couldn't understand them now, their voices nothing but undefined noise.

He thought there was the creak of the cell's door opening.

And the sound of the other men confirmed it.

"Got the water?" Angel asked.

"Yeah, right here." Rich answered, holding up two buckets, Lucas following behind with his own.

"What the fuck are ya'll doin'?" Lucas laughed, seeing the Joker stripped from the waist down, Lou making him hold himself.

"Havin' the freak jerk himself off." Tommy answered. "Figured it's the only way he gets off or somethin'."

"Well his dick's still limp." Rich noted. "I don't think the faggot's got any sex drive."

"Just makes him more of a freak." Angel muttered, sounding disgusted.

"Did he pass out again or somethin'?" Rich asked, coming around and seeing the Joker's eyes closed.

"Naw, I don't think…" Lou replied, reaching out and slapping the madman hard across the face.

The Joker reacted just barely, starting slightly at the blow.

"Yeah, he's still awake."

"You got that lighter?" Rich started.

"Right here." Lou held it up for the other man to see.

And Rich smiled.

"Cool. Lemme see it."

"Hey man, it's my lighter. I wanna be the first to do it."

"Okay, well, we'll just take turns then." Rich said. "Freak's got a nice, thick head 'a hair. There should be plenty to go up in flames, haha."

"Yeah, well, its 'bout the only part left on him that ain't broke, so we might as well add it to the list!" Angel added, chuckling.

"Here, lay him on the floor." Lou said, standing up and stepping back.

And Tommy nodded, unwrapping his arms from around the Joker and pushing him from behind.

The lunatic collapsed, splaying out on his face and stomach.

Lou followed him down.

"How hot's that water Rich?" He asked as he fisted his hand in the madman's hair.

"Hot enough." Rich answered. "Scalding. I thought about boiling it, but who has time to wait around for that shit, right?" He laughed.

Lou smirked.

"Would boiling water put the fire out or make it worse?"

Rich shrugged.

"Who knows? Either way, it'll burn the shit outta him. I let the water run on hot for a couple minutes, at least. You can even see the steam risin' off it, see?"

He nodded at the buckets in his hands.

Lou nodded, pulling the Joker's head up as the others looked on.

"Ready?" He asked, flipping the lighters top, igniting the flame.

"Go for it man!" Lucas smiled, eyes wide in anticipation.

"Heehee, okay." He chuckled, pulling at the Joker's hair, taking a large clump of it in his hand. In the next instant, he touched the lighters flame to it, and immediately it went up, burning bright and quick downwards, towards the madman's scalp.

The Joker's eyes only fluttered slightly with the growing heat, barely stirring as it came closer.

"Whoa, whoa, watch out there!" Tommy laughed. "Freak's hair is loaded with all kindsa' chemicals, remember? The whole fuckin' place might go up if you ain't careful."

Lou waved him off.

"Hey, I fucked him in the ass and didn't fall over laughin', right?" He grinned. "I think we'll be okay."

The men watched the flame burn closer with each second, towards the Joker's skin, waiting for some kind of reaction from him, for him to start flailing or twisting. But all he did was lye there, eyes half open, almost like he was just too tired to react, though the pain at that point must have been immense.

Finally, when the flame was nearly to his scalp, spreading outwards, Lucas stepped in, chugging the bucket of freezing water over the madman's head. The flame went out, thick steam rising off it, and a near inaudible gasp ripped from the Joker's lungs, the shock of ice water stealing his breath.

Where once there had been lush green locks, there now only remained a smoldering and black patch, spots of the white skin underneath showing through.

"Heh. Look at that." Lou laughed. "Makes him even uglier, don't it?"

"Sure does." Angel remarked, bending down, grabbing the collar of the Joker's shirt and lifting him up. "Hey, Joker, you sure are one _ugly_ motherfucker, ain't ya?"

Tommy chuckled.

"Uglier then the fuckin' Elephant man and shit. Hey, ain't it funny how he was dressed up all fancy when we grabbed him? Like he actually had somethin' to show off!"

Rich scoffed.

"Maybe he was just tryin' to distract people from that disgustin' mug a' his. But all those nice clothes weren't doin' shit. He still looked like a freak."

He placed his buckets on the floor, crouching down with Angel, looking their captive in the face. Though it didn't seem now the Joker was looking back at anything, his pupils contracted and unfocused.

"You miss that nice suit 'a yours faggot?" He asked. "Still worried 'bout what happened to it?" He reached out, taking vicious hold of the lunatic's jaw. "Well I'll tell ya. I used it to wipe my ass with." He laughed. "Yeah, that's right. Think maybe it'd be more suited to a piece of shit like you now, huh? More reflecting 'a what you is."

The Joker didn't respond, didn't even seem to hear the man, hanging limp from Angel's grip.

"Here, lemme have the lighter." Rich held his hand out towards Lou. "I wanna have a turn."

Lou handed him the flip top, and Rich grinned, fisting a hand in the Joker's remaining hair as Angel stood and stepped back.

"Let's light this fucker up like a Christmas tree, huh?"

Tommy began laughing.

"Hey, that's a good one Rich! 'Cause he's got green hair! Haha. I get it."

"Yeah, well, not for long he don't." Rich said. "Shit's 'bout to go up like God damn forest fire."

He ignited the flame, lighting the tips of the Joker's hair, letting him drop back to the ground as they watched it flare up, again burning quick.

And again, the Joker barely stirred, doing nothing to try and put it out.

"Fuckin' crazy freak." Tommy spat. "What's, he never react to _nothin_'? His fuckin' _hairs_ on fire and he's just layin' there!"

"Maybe this'll wake him up." Rich frowned in annoyance, standing and taking up one of the buckets he'd set down.

He moved towards the Joker again, standing directly over him, lifting the pal from the bottom, tilting it at an angle.

Doing it fast, he dumped its entire contents over the madman's head, scalding hot water.

And now the Joker did react, convulsing hard and violent on the floor, a loud and sharp gasp tearing from his throat as searing pressure ripped over him, burning unrelenting across his skin, fast peeling it open and back.

An uncontrollable trembling took hold his body, the scorching pain failing to dissipate.

It was like when he'd fallen in to the chemicals.

It was like that.

The men around him erupted in to laughter.

"See now, I told you that'd wake him up!" Rich crowed, slapping his knee.

"Fuuck, I think you actually _hurt_ him!" Tommy couldn't contain his excitement.

"Man, look how his skin's comin' off!" Angel pointed out. "That's sick dude. Look at that shit."

Rich bent down, fisting his hand in what remained of the Joker's hair, pulling him up.

"Not laughin' now, are you clown?" He hissed. "Not so funny _now_."

The Joker's eyes lifted to him, his frame continuing to shutter hard.

And he knew he couldn't speak in that moment, knew it would be impossible.

So he focused, using the absolute last of his strength as his skin continued to burn and peel away. He forced his lips upwards, just barely able, a smile so faint it would have been missed had the man not been looking directly at him, hadn't been so close.

And he held it, for as long as he could, staring at Rich with unblinking eyes.

And Rich's features twisted in rage, the instant following, smashing the Joker's face down against the concrete floor.

"Faggot motherfucker." He muttered.

"What'd he do?" Tommy asked.

"The freak _smiled_ at me." Rich spat, standing and stepping back. "God damned freak."

"Well fuck him." Tommy answered. "Burn the rest of his fuckin' hair off. Not that there's much left anyhow."

And so they did, making quick work of it, dousing the Joker with the remaining buckets of water, saving the scalding liquid for last, drawing the same, violent convulsions from the madman, the same, sharp gasps as more of his skin blistered and peeled.

Consciousness barely remained for the Joker then, and he might have past out if not for the consuming pain which crushed down on him, keeping him from release.

"Get him up." Tommy started. "Get him up on his knees." He began to unbuckle his belt.

"Aww, Tommy, you ain't gonna shit on his face again, are ya?" Lucas complained. "Remember we had to clean it off."

Tommy shook his head, coming near the madman as he pushed his pants down.

"Naw, got somethin' better in mind."

He bent down, grabbing hold of the Joker's jaw and lifting his head up.

"I'mma use that hole in your face for my dick, sweetheart." He grinned cruelly. "And then we're gonna use that ass 'a yours again too."

"Now there's a fuckin' idea!" Angel started, clear excitement in his voice. "He ain't got no teeth no more. He's like the perfect cum tool now!"

And everyone laughed.

"Hold him up for me fella's." Tommy asked again, stepping back, pulling himself out of his underwear.

Rich and Angel grabbed hold enthusiastically, underneath their captive's arms.

The Joker's head slumped forward, his chin against his chest.

"Get his head man. Hold his head up." Tommy instructed, coming forward.

Angel reached out, cupping his hand against the lunatic's forehead, lifting him.

"Now open wide, big boy." Tommy laughed, reaching out, hooking his fingers between the madman's lips, forcing his jaw open.

And in the next instant, he shoved himself inside the Joker's mouth, bucking his hips violently forward.

The Joker choked as the man's penis hit the back of his throat, gagging, and the men just laughed harder, Tommy again bucking in to him, placing a hand on top of the lunatic's head, grinding against him.

"Come on baby, give it to me, nice and easy. You got experience doin' this kinda thing. I know you do."

Again the Joker gagged, face screwing up with the reflex. Rich and Angel tightened their grip, keeping him from moving.

Over and over, Tommy bucked in to him, beginning to roll his hips.

"Ahh, yeah sweety, th-that's the spot right _there_. Ahh, oh yeah…" His head lolled back, mouth hanging open as he started towards his climax. "C-come up s-sweety. Give it to me good."

Seconds later, and the man exploded, ejaculating in to the Joker's mouth, crying out with the release of pressure, shoulders slumping and frame shuttering.

Moments past.

And then he pulled out, grinning with glazed over eyes as he put himself back in his briefs.

The Joker heaved, gagging again. And then he threw up, vomit pushing past his lips and on to himself, down his front, unable to fall forward as Angel continued to hold his head back.

"Aww, did baby have an accident?" Tommy chuckled, reaching down, lifting the Joker's shirt up and wiping his face with it. "That's okay babe, you still gave the best damn blow job I think I ever had!"

"Shit, I knew the bitch had to be good for somethin'!" Lou began. "Fucker's ass was tight as a drum. Wasn't much of a lay."

"Yeah, that's true." Lucas said. "I'da thought he'd be loose, but he wasn't."

"Heh, you think maybe he's a _virgin_?" Angel started. "Or, uh, _was_, haha."

"Wouldn't be surprised." Tommy answered. "Doubt he's ever been fucked. Seriously, no chick'd touch him. I don't even think other fags would. We probly popped his cherry and shit."

They fell silent a moment, watching the Joker continuing to shake, small amounts of bile and saliva continuing to drip from his lower lip, mixed with the results of Tommy's climax.

"Lemme have at him!" Angel suddenly said. "Tommy, you take him."

The men exchanged places, and within seconds, Angel had himself pushed inside the Joker's mouth, repeating what the other man had.

And again the Joker was unable to stop himself from vomiting.

This repeated, every man taking his turn, to the point all the Joker was throwing back up was their sperm, and blood, from his own insides bleeding.

His exhaustion was absolute, and when they'd finished with him, letting him go finally, he collapsed to his face and stomach, motionless on the ground, his lids now fully closed again, too heavy to hold open.

And still his frame shook.

His body was betraying him.

He would die soon.

He knew he would.

He wondered what the Bat would do without him.

"Someone get that table."

There was the sound of the cell's door, opening, and closing.

And then opening again.

He wasn't sure of how much time had past.

And then there were hands on him again, lifting him up, and he was being lain over something, on his stomach, spread out and pinned down.

He was too out of it to realize what it was until he felt himself penetrated from behind, and the sounds of the men's grunting had begun to fill his ears, the sounds undefined, more like some distant echo, detached and far, apart from him.

He would die soon.

And he wondered what the Bat would do without him.

/

Laurence stood, obedient, as he waited for the doctor to give him permission to speak.

The older man was sitting at his desk, writing in his notebook, seeming to pay the assistant no mind.

Laurence kept his eyes focused forward, hands folded behind his back.

And finally, after several minutes, the doctor sighed, looking up.

"You wished to see me about something Laurence?" He asked, sounding impatient and bored.

Laurence nodded, his gaze casting to the doctor.

"Yes Sir." He answered.

A moment of silence past, Finius' brows rising in expectancy.

"Well?" He at last began. "_What is it_?"

Laurence cleared his throat, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

"Sir, it's about the Joker." He started.

Dr. Finius' expression failed to alter, waiting for the younger man to continue.

When Laurence saw his employer would say nothing, he went on.

"Sir…" he started with some hesitation, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I don't presume to tell you how to do your job, or pretend as though I'm more qualified then you to make a judgment on a… person's condition…" he paused, glancing up a moment.

And still the doctor's expression hadn't changed.

Laurence continued.

"But, it seems increasingly clear to me, in regards to the Joker, that the man simply _isn't_ going to give in to your demands, or cooperate in _any_ way whatsoever."

Finius smiled.

"And you're just now figuring this out Laurence?" He asked.

Laurence stared blankly, confusion in his eyes.

The doctor laughed lightly.

"Of _course_ he isn't." He went on. "That became quite obvious early on, I should think."

The assistant's brow furrowed.

"… Then there's no further reason to continue with these experiments." He replied. "Correct?"

Finius' grin only widened.

"Nothing in the name of science, no." He answered.

Questioning kept in the assistant's features.

"… You'll forgive me Sir, but, if not for science, then what purpose is there in continuing to torture the madman?"

There was a flash of annoyance in the doctor's eyes as he placed his pen down, folding his hands over the notebook and pinning Laurence with his gaze.

"The _purpose_, Laurence, is to teach the Joker a _lesson_. He is nothing but a defiant, contemptuous, _seditious_ little boy. Someone who thinks himself beyond the rules which apply to us all. But as he's finding _out_…" and now Finius smiled again. "that just isn't so."

The assistant shifted uncomfortably, his clasped hands tightening.

"Sir, again, it isn't my intent to dictate. And I'm sure you're aware, but your men have been…" once more his eyes cast down. "they've been sexually assaulting the madman Sir. They're… they're down there as we speak…"

"And?" Dr. Finius questioned as though there weren't anything unusual.

Laurence looked up quickly, further perplexed.

"Sir, it's just, I fail to see the Joker learning any sort of… _lesson_, from all of this. You yourself acknowledge he isn't…"

Dr. Finius waved a hand, cutting him off.

"I say let the men have their fun Laurence. It keeps them from getting other ideas."

"But Sir," the assistant pushed. "its quite apparent the Joker's body won't hold out to this kind of abuse much longer. Any more and he'll surely die."

"If the Joker chooses to forgo his well being out of nothing but spite, then so be it. I've given him ample opportunity to escape his current situation."

"But Sir, that's my entire _point_. It obviously isn't a _choice _on the madman's part. You've as much acknowledged it yourself. He can _be _no other way then how he is. He's simply incapable of regarding his circumstances with any sort of seriousness, unable to understand the gravity of what he faces."

"Laurence, my boy…" Dr. Finius' brows raised in questioning. "what, exactly, are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying… I'm saying the Joker is going to _die_ Sir, and he doesn't… doesn't seem to _realize_ it or… or really grasp what that _means_. It isn't… isn't _natural_, isn't indicative of any sort of _normalcy_ or of a… a well _mind_. He's ill Sir, and he doesn't have a say in the matter. It's like… like torturing an animal and expecting it to tell you when it's had enough, knowing full well it _cannot_."

"Oh, _I_ see Laurence." Finius answered, condescension in his voice. "You've suddenly decided to follow your moral compass. Is _that_ it? Decided you no longer have the stomach for this sort of work? How many men have _died _here Laurence? How many have lost their lives?"

"That isn't my point Sir." The assistant continued to argue. "Those men had a _choice_, they understood what was happening to them. Yes, some of them were physically weaker then the others and their bodies gave way. But _all_ of them eventually begged you to stop, all of them gave in to your demands. All of them made an attempt to _save_ themselves. The Joker has not and he _will not_. He's sustained a hundred times the damage of any of our other captives, been through infinitely worse suffering, and he simply isn't capable of acknowledging it or… or helping himself in any way. And this isn't right Sir. It just… it isn't right."

Dr. Finius shook his head, looking unimpressed.

"And what did you expect Laurence, hmm? When _you _captured the madman? Let us not forget it was _you_ who brought him to _me_. _You _who attacked and subdued him in the first place. You were well aware of his history. Of why I wanted him. You knew of his… _legendary_ resilience."

Laurence's eyes dropped to the floor.

"I didn't… didn't think it would be like this." He muttered. "Not like this. I thought he'd… he'd give in eventually. That he'd break…"

"Well as you've duly noted several times now, he hasn't, and he won't. So what do you propose we do Laurence? Hmm? Set him _free_? Let him go back out, in to the streets?" Finius leaned forward on the table, looking threateningly up at the assistant. "And what do you think will happen, should we _do_ such a thing, _boy_?"

Laurence glanced up at him, silent.

"I'll tell you what will _happen_ Laurence." The doctor continued. "We set that lunatic free, and he'll recover. It may take several months. It may even take several years. But he _will_ recover. And when he_ does_, he'll come after _us_. Not me. _Us_. You're included Laurence. He may even reserve a special place for you, given it was you who got him at his best, who took him down and brought him here. And his is indeed a _sick_ mind Laurence. I don't doubt him capable of imagining up tortures a thousand times worse then the ones we've subjected him to. So, it's either that, or we finish what we've already started."

The assistant could only stare at the doctor then, still and without words.

And Finius smiled at him, leaning back in his seat.

"That's a good boy." He said. "I knew you'd understand."

He picked his pen back up, turning his attention once more to his notebook.

For a few, long moments, Laurence continued to stand there, unmoving.

"If that's all Laurence?" Finius went on, not bothering to look up.

The assistant started, seemingly only to just then realize he was still standing there.

And as he began to turn, towards the office door, the doctor called out…

"Oh, and Laurence…"

He looked back, over his shoulder at the older man.

"If the Joker somehow miraculously _escapes_… I'll know who's to blame. And don't think for a moment I won't do to _you_ what I've done to _him_."

The color seemed to drain from Laurence's face, and the doctor smiled, eyes narrowing.

"That's all." He finished.

And without another word, he turned again towards his work, beginning once more to write.

/

Alfred bent, picking up the various articles of clothing strewn about the floor, evidence of Bruce's distraction as of late. Not that he'd ever been much for picking up after himself. But it had grown increasingly worse these last, few weeks, as the young man's patience for acting the part of playboy billionaire had dwindled significantly, barely able to make it through functions or business meetings, coming home and stripping off his daytime wears in exchange for more theatrical attire.

The butler had been doing his best to keep up, never saying a word, though his concern for the vigilante had been increasing alongside Bruce's own anxiety.

He knew Bruce was searching for the Joker, and that his failure to scare up any, real leads thus far was weighing heavily upon him.

Alfred hadn't questioned why the madman's disappearance was of such great concern to his charge, feeling it not his place.

But if this were to keep up much longer, Bruce spending entire nights out there, searching, not making it back home until after dawn, exhausted and no less distraught, he was going to have a word with the crusader.

He heard the phone ringing from the next room, the second time it had done so since he came in here. He'd ignored it, and he was going to ignore it now.

There was simply too much else to be done at the moment.

/

Jason paced restlessly back and forth along the floor of his apartment, still feeling lightheaded and nauseas.

"Come on. _Come on_." He spoke aloud. "Pick up the _phone_ Alfred. We're running out of _time_."

/

For the third time, the phone began to ring, and Alfred sighed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

"_Probably another of those dreadful politicians, looking for an endorsement_." He thought.

Those people just didn't understand the word no.

He threw the clothes he'd gathered in to a nearby hamper before making his way in to the adjoining room, towards the telephone.

Just as he reached it, its final ring sounded.

"Bother…" he muttered to himself, reaching down and working the caller ID. These people always blocked their number, so he wasn't even sure why he was checking.

To his surprise, a number came up, though no name.

Again he sighed.

"Might as well…" he said, pressing redial and holding the receiver to his ear.

Almost instantly it picked up.

"Hi old man."

He immediately recognized the voice.

"Young Master Jason…" Alfred replied, voice unruffled. "this is a… pleasant surprise."

Jason gave a half-hearted chuckle.

"No need to pretend on account of me Alfred." He said.

"I assure you…" the older man answered. "I am not… _pretending_, as you say. It's good to hear your voice Jason."

Jason smiled on the other end.

Alfred was the only one he'd never grown to resent. The only one who he still felt he could come to, who he felt he could tell anything.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?" He heard the butler ask.

"Alfred, I need to talk to Bruce, right away. Please, if you could contact him for me...?"

Alfred could hear the sincerity in his voice, the desperation even.

"I can see this is a matter most urgent." He answered. "I shant delay you a moment more then. Putting you through to him now…"

/

Batman pressed the comm. link, hearing the call come through from Alfred.

"Yes?" He answered.

"Sir..." he heard the butler's voice come through. "Master Jason is on the other line, requesting to speak with you. He says it's urgent."

Bruce's eyes narrowed, a frown pulling at his lips.

A million thoughts seemed to rush through his mind, none of them good as he tried to think of the reasons for why Jason would call him, _now_, after their last exchange.

God, he prayed it wasn't…

A moment past in silence, and then he spoke.

"Put him through."

Without a word, the butler did as he was asked, a moment following, and he heard the voice of his former charge.

"Bruce…"

"What is it Jason?" The vigilante asked, not wanting to waste any time.

"Meet me at the top of the Aparo building, 15 minutes. I have something for you."

The line cut, and Bruce felt his hands clench tight.

"Damn it." He muttered, looking out over the skyline.

If he cut across the rooftops, he could make it just in time.

Without hesitation he leapt from the ledge he stood over, falling towards the earth, shooting out his grapple and swinging with his momentum to the next roof.

He would never admit it, but fear sank to his insides, a kind of numbness reaching his fingertips at the prospect of what Jason might show to him.

/

By the time he arrived, Jason was already there, waiting.

Bruce didn't bother with approaching undetected, landing on the roof in plain view of the other man, Jason watching closely, standing back a few feet.

"That was fast." He said, expression stoic, no real amusement in his voice despite the flippant remark.

Bruce straightened, stepping towards him, closing the distance.

"What is it Jason?" He asked, his tone indicating he wasn't in the mood for any sort of games.

Jason watched him a moment, saying nothing.

And then he started, reaching up and beginning to unzip his jacket.

Bruce found himself inadvertently bracing, anticipating some sort of attack, or…

The younger man reached to his inside pocket, pulling the tape from it.

Bruce eyed it, confusion gripping his insides a moment before bringing his gaze to Jason's own.

"Here." Jason held the cassette out.

Bruce didn't move.

"What is it?" He asked, tone heavy.

"It's just… it's something you need to see." Jason answered, voice quiet.

When Bruce still remained motionless, he sighed, arm lowering.

"I found that lead you were looking for Bruce." He said.

The crusader's eyes narrowed.

"What are you talking about Jason?" He asked, his impatience growing with his concern.

Jason swallowed, looking down.

"The Joker…" he started. "I found… I found out what happened to him."

Batman's anxiety felt as though it increased tenfold in less then a second.

"You know where he is?" He spat, almost accusingly. "_Tell me_ Jason! What do you know?"

"I don't know where he is." Jason answered quickly, looking up. "Just that these people have him." Again he held out the tape. "They've got him in some sort of cell. It's all on there Bruce. You… you need to watch it. It… it isn't good."

For a moment Bruce eyed the tape again, looking back up at Jason once more before taking it from him.

Jason seemed almost to exhale as the crusader took the cassette, dropping his gaze to the ground.

"Bruce, you need to hurry." He went on. "I… I don't know if he's even alive still. You need to hurry."

"What's on this tape Jason?" Bruce asked, the knot in his stomach growing tighter.

Jason only shook his head.

"It isn't good." He repeated.

"Is it footage of the Joker being killed?" The vigilante asked, needing to know, feeling sick as the words expelled past his lips.

The younger man's head shook.

"No." He answered. "It's…" he breathed out, shuttering. "It's footage of them torturing him. But it's bad Bruce. If he isn't dead already, he will be soon. You have to hurry."

Bruce looked down at the tape, examining it.

There was nothing remarkable about the outer casing, nothing to indicate what lay within.

He looked back up.

"Why are you doing this?" He asked coldly, suspicious. "Just last week you…"

"Because you're the only one who can help him now Bruce." Jason cut him short. "You've got the resources, the drive. I can't be the one to spend time on this. I can't do anything for him. But you can."

"What are you talking about?" Bruce shot.

Jason shook his head.

"This isn't right… what they're doing. It isn't right. I can't save him Bruce. Only you can. You… you need to save him from this…"

He swallowed again, eyes casting to the side.

"You need to save him from himself."

Confusion spread across Bruce's features.

"What?"

But Jason was already turning, already going for the roof's ledge.

"Save him from himself Bruce." He said back over his shoulder. "And… good luck."

And then he was gone, leaving the vigilante alone, uncertain still as to what had just happened.

He glanced down again at the tape, fingers tightening around it.

And the thing seemed suddenly so heavy in his hand.

/

He couldn't move, didn't feel like he could even _breathe_. There was numbness, and nausea, the feeling that, again, he was going to be sick.

Halfway through viewing, he'd had to stop, breaking for the bathroom as he felt the bile rising up out of his stomach, fast up his throat.

He'd barely made it in time.

And now he was frozen, only vaguely aware of his trembling hands.

This couldn't be.

It couldn't.

The Joker… oh God, what they'd done to him… what they… what they'd done.

He stared at the blank screen, as though if he looked upon it long enough, hard enough, it might take back what he'd seen, might show him something to tell him this wasn't _real_.

Oh God… _God_, he couldn't take this…

He didn't notice the tears until his vision at once blurred, and he felt the moisture of them, falling against his face.

"_Nooo_…" he hissed, teeth grinding together in hopelessness.

He couldn't get the Joker's face from his mind now… how blank it had been, how blank his _eyes_ had been.

They'd degraded him. Completely taken _everything_ from him. And he'd shown nothing. No fear, or humiliation. No _anger_ even.

It wasn't the man Batman knew. The prideful, vain lunatic he'd fought with so brutally all these years.

It wasn't that the Joker hadn't fought back. There had been something physically _wrong_ with him, beyond the grotesque and profound bruising, a sign that he'd been beaten, and beaten again, and again, how many times was impossible to say, or the fact he'd clearly been starved.

He'd been drugged or… somehow sedated, though the obvious agony which etched its way in to his features made it plain that, whatever they'd given him, it hadn't blocked his pain receptors. But it had been enough to make him lose control of his bodily functions, the reason for his having both urinated and defecated on himself, the uncontrollable saliva which filled his mouth and pushed past his lips, and the visible tremors running through his limbs.

Bruce knew to look at him he couldn't have fought back, even if he'd wanted to.

These people had made _damn _sure of that.

But the Joker's reaction, the _lack _of reaction…

The _resignation_ in him…

Bruce had never seen that, he'd never seen the madman look so… _defeated_.

If there was a single word he could use in describing his great rival, it was _will_.

He had absolutely the greatest will the vigilante had ever seen in a man, unshakeable in his resolve, beyond persuasion or intimidation.

And yet here… here it was that same will, that same impossible determination and absolute commitment which was the Joker's very undoing.

He was _unable_ to betray his convictions, so thoroughly did he believe in them, so steadfastly did he abide. Trapped by the very philosophy which ruled him, beyond for even a moment to break free, to see anything as greater then meaningless, even his own ruination.

Bruce had always thought… he'd always been sure the Joker would never allow others to do to him what he… what he did to them… that he would never accept being treated as though worthless as he viewed everything else. That his pride would never allow it.

But he had been wrong.

The Joker _had _no pride. He had no sense of self-importance, or self-value. It had been the Joker's air of superiority, Bruce realized. A high self-regard that he'd confused with a sense of greater importance. The Joker had always thought himself smarter then everyone, more talented, more charismatic.

But he'd never thought of himself as more important.

He had never thought of himself as important _at all_.

The tragedy of him was supreme.

And it was only now the crusader was first grasping it.

Again his teeth ground together, another, strangled protest ripping from his lips.

The Joker was _helpless_. Beaten in to physical submission, the sickness of his mind making it impossible for him to feel any sense of urgency, any kind of panic towards his own, impending demise; killing any determination to _live_, to _survive_. He felt no drive to self-preserve, no fear to save him.

Oh God, and these men _knew_ it. They knew it, and they were using it against the lunatic, using his own incapability to care what happened to him as an excuse for _themselves_. They were counting on the Joker not giving in. They were _counting _on it. And the Joker, for all his great brilliance, couldn't see that, couldn't see how they relished in what they no doubt perceived to be a pitiable and pathetic animal, sad and lame without the innate instinct to survive, the desire to go on above all else. Bruce could see it in their faces, a kind of thrill they got from torturing a defenseless creature, what they'd convinced themselves was an abomination against nature. Because everyone… _everyone_ wanted to live. Everyone had the drive to save themselves against death.

But the Joker wasn't everyone. He wasn't _them_.

He didn't _want_ to live. Yet nor did he wish to die. Neither held any preference, as he'd simply accepted the state of existing, accepted having no choice in it, as he had no choice in his death, in the act of his ceasing to exist. Whatever had been designed for him, he felt no resentment towards, no righteous indignation, or offense at being made to suffer, being made to die. He felt no _right_ to his life, no ownership of it. No fierce protectiveness or need to defend it. To be treated with respect or as though he meant anything at all. He felt nothing, his being as worthless to him, as meaningless as those whose lives he took.

Oh Christ…

Bruce looked down, his eyes clamping tight shut, tears pushing faster past his lids and streaming down his cheeks.

Why… _why_ was this man this way?

Such a brilliant man… such a gifted man… full of the greatest of promises… So full of life… vitality… charisma…

He could have been anything… anything he wanted, anything in the world.

But maybe that was nature's cruel joke against him.

He was too much. Too talented, too intelligent, too incredible. And so she robbed him of it all, striking him down with an illness which made it impossible for him to ever realize it, to ever be anything but the hopeless wretch that he was.

Bruce pressed his palms to his eyes, his chest feeling suddenly restricted, like the weight of a thousand tons pushed upon it, and he choked out, a strangled sob.

God, please… _please_, he had to save him.

But he didn't know _how_!

And in his despair, anger consumed him, and he lashed out, smashing his still gauntleted fist in to the static-filled screen.

It broke, collapsing in from the power of the blow, tiny sparks shooting in to the air. And Bruce didn't even notice the pain which now shot up his hand, in to his arm.

"_Bastards_!" He cried out. "Disgusting… disgusting _bastards_!"

He felt so totally powerless.

Those men… those men were nothing. _Nothing_! And yet, they'd reduced his greatest advosery to a limp and crumpled heap on the floor, too weak to lift himself even.

More tears came to Bruce's eyes, images of the Joker struggling, trying with every ounce of his little strength to push himself to his hands and knees, again and again, failing, suffering the consequences of his refusal to give in, of his refusal to let those men have what he thought they wanted. And oh God, he couldn't see those men had wanted him to get up, to give them more reason to sink their boots to his ribs, to his stomach. He couldn't see it. And he just kept trying, in spite of how it showed his weakness, even as that weakness proved how much they'd hurt him, how much they'd truly _done_. Even as it served as a testament to their total hold and control over him, the Joker still tried, beyond the humiliation it should have caused him.

They were laughing at him, for the very thing he sought to defy them with. And he couldn't see it.

Sane men taking advantage of a man too sick to help himself, too sick to understand…

The rage Bruce felt towards them was murderous. He wanted to _destroy _them. Show them how pathetic, how disgusting _they_ were. Take their words towards the Joker and make them swallow them down.

How dare they… how _dare_ they do this? Lay their filthy hands upon a man so much greater then them? So much _more_? The Joker would have… he would have obliterated them had he… had he not been so physically weak. Had they not…

The crusader's mouth pulled in to a confused frown, brow furrowing as he tried to think how this had even happened, how they'd gotten their hands on the Joker.

They could only have taken him in a group.

And they must have… they must have been well organized, well prepared. And the Joker… the Joker in all his reckless abandon must not have…

Bruce's hands clenched to fists again.

He must not have been _ready_, must have been taken by surprise.

They could only have gotten him through well laid plans. And so they must have been watching him, attacking when they saw him vulnerable.

When maybe he wasn't armed. The Joker often went without more then a knife, or those razor edged playing cards of his. He often didn't have a gun. And it must have been during one of those times. It must have been.

They'd used his own impulsiveness against him. Someone like the Joker, because of who he was, should always have carried a firearm. But he did what in any given moment he felt compelled to, and often that meant going about without significant protection.

He never felt the need to ensure his safety, though usually his reputation was enough to keep would be assaulters at bay.

Not this time...

And it had cost him.

It couldn't have been those men, Bruce thought. They were too idiotic to have planned so well, to have been so organized on their own. And too cowardly, too gutless to have thought of taking on the Joker without him being severely compromised.

It had to have been someone else then, someone controlling _them_. Giving them orders.

Panic returned.

He had to _save_ him, but Christ, what if he was already _dead_? What if they'd killed him after the tape ended?

Images shot through the vigilante's mind, of them putting the Joker on his knees, holding a gun to his head and blowing his brains out.

He felt himself shaking, the nausea returning as panic turned to fear.

Abruptly he stood, looking around him dazedly, his feeling of uselessness suddenly consuming him.

He stumbled across the space, in to a table filled with beakers and hotplates and other tools of chemistry. And his despair only grew, the things reminding him of the Joker, his great genius in the field, and in a blind fury, he swept his arm across the table, knocking its contents violently to the floor.

And then he pushed away, staggering in the opposite direction, pushing things over and throwing them across the cave as he went, tools and gadgets and supplies.

His foot hit something. Looking down, he saw it was his cowl, lying where he'd discarded it earlier that night, on his way to the computers.

He stared at it a moment, just sitting there, useless as he felt.

And at once his face twisted in rage, and he bent, taking it up.

"What good are you?" He spat at the mask. "What good are you to him?"

His grip tightened, and clenching his teeth, he hurled the thing as hard as he could across the floor, turning before it even landed, collapsing to the ground in grief.

The cowl hit the ground, rolling a short ways and coming to a stop at the feet of Alfred.

The butler observed it a moment before looking up, across the way, seeing Bruce on his knees, his face buried in his hands.

His brow furrowed, mouth pulling at the corners in to a frown.

Gingerly he knelt, picking up the mask, and with it, he approached the younger man, quietly.

He knew Bruce was aware of his presence, and so he simply stood, waiting.

The state of the place hadn't escaped him, the ruined displays and broken instruments.

His heart sank, observing his charge, obvious devastation in his form.

Minutes past in silence, neither man making a sound.

Until finally Bruce shifted, his face still covered as he muttered, voice as defeated as he appeared…

"They're killing him Alfred. Oh God, they're _killing _him. And he doesn't… doesn't even care."

For a moment, the butler said nothing, eyes moving up, seeing the broken in screen of one of the computer monitors, his gaze then shifting back to the crusader.

"Master Bruce…" he started softly.

Bruce shook his head.

"He can't help himself Alfred. Oh Jesus Christ, I never realized… never realized how helpless he was…"

Alfred shifted, stepping closer. Reaching out, he rested a hand softly on Bruce's shoulder.

"The Joker, Sir?"

The detective nodded, face still buried.

Alfred's frown deepened, again glancing up at the broken computer monitor, the still running tape, playing in an old VCR.

"Master Bruce…" he began, voice hushed. "If your current state is any indicator as to the contents of the tape you've just viewed, I have no desire to know of it… What I _do_ know is, for your sake and…" he paused, looking down. "for _his_… you _must_ pull yourself together. If the Joker is in as great peril as you say, then you must do what you can to find and rescue him. I suspect you to be his only real hope now."

For a moment, there was no reply, and Alfred could feel the crusader trembling, a shutter running through his thick and powerful frame.

And then he breathed, exhaling.

Bruce swallowed.

Alfred was right. He knew it. And what was he doing, sitting here on the floor, wallowing in self-pity. What good did _that _do the Joker?

Every moment he wasted like this, the greater the chance of the madman not making it. Of him being lost.

"I know." He finally answered. "I have to… I have to do something. I have to find him." He pulled his hands from his face, trying to wipe the evidence of his tears away. "But I've tried every lead. I don't… don't know where to look anymore. Nobody knows anything. Nobody's talking."

Alfred's forehead creased in thought.

"What about the tape, Sir?" He asked. "Surely, there must be something there you can use. Some sort of lead, something to indicate to you where they have him?"

Bruce's head shook.

"I don't know Alfred. I didn't… didn't notice anything. All I could see was they… they had him in some sort of cell. But there were no defining features, no… clues to the location."

"There were other men in the footage Master Bruce?"

The crusader nodded weakly.

"Did you recognize any of them?"

"No, I… I don't think so. I didn't really… really notice… I couldn't concentrate on anything but… but him, what they were doing to him…"

He felt his throat constrict, more tears threatening at the backs of his eyes as he thought of what he'd seen again.

"Sir, I know this is difficult, but…" Alfred began. "you need to watch that tape as many times as is necessary, to exhaust all possibilities. You need to make sure there isn't anything there which may help you to locate the Joker. Because there very well _may_ be."

Bruce nodded weakly, eyes fixed, unfocused ahead of him.

He knew Alfred was also right about that.

But he didn't know… didn't know if he could take watching the tape again. The images still burned in his mind, seeming to torture him.

Torture… _torture_…

What the hell was _wrong_ with him?

The Joker was out there, at the mercy of these… these _monsters_, _suffering_ God only knew what horrors. If he was… if he was even still _alive_.

And here he was, sitting on the floor, suddenly too terrified to _watch_ what it was the Joker _endured_.

What he endured seemingly without fear. Without burden or complaint.

The Joker _needed_ him.

And he was letting him down now. He was letting him down.

He wouldn't anymore.

Resolve came quickly then, hard, and he pushed himself to his feet.

"I'm going to find him Alfred." He said, wiping the last of his tears away.

And Alfred nodded.

"Very good, Master Bruce. Very good."


	10. Chapter 10

**Hey guys, new chapter! I just want to give a huge thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed this story so far. The response to it has been overwhelming and I'm just really glad I've been able to provide a story to you that in some way adds something beneficial to your day. So just thank you, to those who leave anonymous reviews too, you're just as appreciated.**

**Anyway, big thanks to TheMadCapLaughs for her feedback and suggestions on this chapter. I hope you guys enjoy it, and please let me know what you think by leaving a review!**

**Chapter 10:**

He'd had to watch the tape half a dozen times before the recognition came, exploding fast and hard in his mind, the face of one of the men, a faded scar running from his jaw to the tip of his chin. A knife scar. He'd seen his picture only once, maybe eight months back.

There had been a series of unusual disappearances over the course of several weeks, Bruce remembered. Petty, smalltime members of the city's criminal element vanishing off the streets, suddenly and without apparent reason.

Bruce had made an effort in investigating the disappearances. Many of the men who had gone missing, he recalled, had just gotten out of prison, though several others had been on the streets for longer. All of them had served hard time for minor felonies. Robbery, grand theft, assault. Instances of domestic abuse.

Nothing extremely serious.

The detective had gone over his files for each man, trying to deduce some pattern, some connection between them. But he could find none, no relation, no business dealings, no evidence that any of them had ever even met or been associated with each other in any way, either personally or professionally.

He'd never gotten any further in his findings, eventually having to put the case on the backburner, given more pressing matters. The Joker having escaped Arkham being most prominent among them.

He remembered then, around four months ago, the disappearances had stopped, the case going completely cold, and all thoughts of it had gone from Bruce's mind, too focused on everything else.

He realized now that had been a mistake.

But the Joker… he'd been engaged with the Joker, and all else ceased when the madman was about.

He wasn't even sure what had so suddenly triggered his recognition of the man on the tape, but it had come like a revelation, his heart's pace quickening, a rush of dread-filled excitement as the pieces fell quickly in to place.

The disappearances had been _kidnappings_. He'd always suspected as much, but he'd had no proof, nothing to make a solid conclusion. Someone or… or something had been abducting criminals, all smalltime offenders, inconsequential in the larger scheme.

And then it had stopped. No one else had gone missing. And he'd forgotten about it, failing to realize anything unusual.

It became clear now.

They'd been _practicing_. The taking of dime a dozen, common criminals, a constant pattern over several weeks. And then it suddenly stopping…

Three months later, the Joker had vanished.

Bruce didn't know why it hadn't occurred to him sooner.

They'd been preparing for him. Those few months of being dormant, they'd likely been watching the Joker, mapping out how best to take him, waiting for just the right moment to attack.

Whoever was behind this then wasn't stupid. They knew the Joker would be dangerous, that they couldn't just go after him. They'd done their research, and exhibited patience.

The man on the tape had been one of the men to disappear, and it seemed obvious now to Bruce that, whoever was running this operation, they'd somehow been convincing these men to work for them, likely, at least partially, with the intent of using them to help in the Joker's abduction.

The crusader hadn't hesitated in pulling the man's file then, going back over it.

Angel Hernandez, convicted of grand theft auto and assault charges late the year previous. He'd spent five months in prison before being released back out on to the streets.

It had been easy enough finding out he now had a girlfriend, who he'd just started seeing in the last, three months, and then tracking her down.

It had been easier still getting her to tell him everything she knew. Which hadn't been much.

But it had been enough.

She'd at first been defiant, unwilling to "sell out her man", as she'd put it.

But Batman had been prepared for that, and he'd brought enough evidence to persuade her to the contrary.

"_I see you're wearing an engagement ring, Ms. Sanchez." Batman noted._

_The woman self-consciously hid her hand behind her back, glaring at the vigilante with suspicion._

"_What's it to you?" She asked._

"_Are you engaged with Mr. Hernandez?" _

"_That's none of your business!" She snapped._

_Batman remained unfazed._

"_No. You're right. It isn't. But I just thought maybe you should know Ms. Sanchez, your fiancée isn't all he likely presents himself to be."_

_Confusion flashed across the woman's face, brow furrowing._

"_What the hell are you talking about?" She snapped. "Angel is a total gentleman! Unlike you! Just come busting in to my home without a warrant or anything!"_

_Batman shook his head._

"_He isn't a gentleman, Ms. Sanchez. You do realize the man you're going to marry has a rap sheet?"_

"_Yeah, you ain't telling me nothing I don't already know!" She replied. "So he went to jail for jacking a car! Big deal."_

"_Is that what you think he went to prison for Ms. Sanchez?" Batman asked. "Is that what he told you?"_

"… _Yeah." She answered. "Yeah, that's what he told me. And it's the truth!"_

_Again Batman shook his head._

"_I'm afraid not, Ms. Sanchez. Your husband went to prison on assault charges. Against his _ex-wife_."_

_The woman was unable to hide the surprise from her face then, clearly having not expected that._

"_Angel wasn't… he wasn't married."_

"_I can see there's a lot your fiancée hasn't told you Ms. Sanchez." Batman said. "I figured that might be the case. But I'm not lying. I've brought you evidence to back my claims."_

_The vigilante produced a folder from under his cape, handing it to the woman._

_There were copies of a marriage license contained within, as well as trial testimony from Hernandez's ex-wife, used against him in court._

_Ms. Sanchez took it with some hesitation, keeping her eyes distrustfully on Batman a long moment before lowering her gaze._

_Flipping open the folder, she began to read, her eyes growing large both with shock and disbelief as she went on._

_Finally she looked up at Batman, mouth hung open and speechless._

"_Mr. Hernandez's ex-wife, she says when she first met Angel, he seemed like the sweetest man. A total gentleman. The same words you use to described him." Batman started. "But that all changed once they were married. She testified how he started treating her like an object, like she was his property. And that soon escalated. He started beating her. Eventually he raped her."_

"_No!" The woman screamed. "No, that's… that's not true! My Angel would never…"_

"_Mr. Hernandez is a sociopath, Ms. Sanchez." Batman cut her short, his voice grim. "Sociopaths can be very good at appearing and acting normal when they have to. They can be very good at fooling people in to thinking there isn't anything wrong with them." _

_He looked intently back at the woman, who now had tears, pushing at the backs of her eyes._

"_Turn the page. You'll see a record of your fiancée's prison record. He exhibits all the signs of a serial rapist, I'm afraid. He rapped another inmate at Blackgate Penitentiary during his time there. Nothing was ever done, because unfortunately, that's a fairly common occurrence in prisons. But there's more…"_

_And now Batman produces something else from beneath his cape._

_A photo still, taken from the tape of the men beating and rapping the Joker._

_The crusader had taken care to blank out the Joker's face in the picture, and there was no need to worry about the woman being able to identify him from his body. The bruises and lacerations were so deep and extensive, it was impossible to see the uniformed white of the madman's skin. Almost every inch of him was covered, black and blue and yellow._

"_Recognize this man?" Bruce held the picture out to her, pointing to Hernandez as he stood at the Joker's back, penetrating him from behind, his mouth in a wide grin as he laughed._

_The tears which had been pooling in Ms. Sanchez's eyes immediately fell, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as her heart pounded painfully in her chest._

"_No, this… this can't be." She muttered, her voice a whisper. "It can't."_

"_If you don't believe me Ms. Sanchez…" Batman went on. "I can show you the actual footage this still was taken from." Again he reached in to his cape, pulling from it a DVD he'd burned from the original. On this too, he'd blanked out the Joker's face, as well as muted any mention of his name. "If you think you can handle it. I have to warn you though, it's extremely violent, extremely horrific. Your fiancée, along with a group of four others, brutally beat and raped a defenseless _man_, Ms. Sanchez. And going by their behavior on this tape, I would say they did so with pleasure."_

_For a long, few seconds, the woman just stood, her hand still over her mouth as her eyes closed, more tears pushing past and falling._

"_If you need to see…" Batman continued, seeing she wasn't answering._

_But then she shook her head, putting a hand up._

"_No, no, that's… that's enough. I… I believe you." She said. "I don't need to… to see anything. Oh God… that bastard. That BASTARD!"_

"_I'm sorry about this Ms. Sanchez." The detective apologized. "But it's for your own safety. I need to find your husband. The man in this photograph, on this video, the one they beat and rapped, his life depends on it ma'me. If I don't find him soon, he'll likely die." He paused as the thought passed through his mind, feeling that same dread drop down through his stomach. "He might already be gone even." He finally managed, the words feeling like poison on his tongue._

Ms. Sanchez had been very talkative after that, relaying all the information she had.

She said Angel had been "working out of town", though she didn't know the details of the job. She only saw him on the weekends, before he had to head back out. She'd then said, in a telephone conversation, Angel had let slip he was up somewhere around the Catskill Mountains, in New York state.

Batman had left shortly after receiving this information.

He now had an area, small enough to navigate on his own, and there hadn't been any more time to waste.

He'd headed back to the cave, retrieving the plane and then going immediately back out. It had taken only a short, fifteen minutes to reach New York, and only a further five before he found himself over the range of mountains, observing from above.

He wasn't sure precisely what he was looking for. Anything unusual, anything which seemed suspicious or out of place. He knew it would have to be some place large enough to house a large group of men, and able to conceal something like the cell he'd seen in the tape.

This wasn't exact, he knew, but the Joker was running out of time… he might already _have_, and there wasn't room for further investigation.

He was somewhere in this place, and Bruce was going to find him.

No matter what.

He flew slowly across, looking out through the cockpit window, over houses and areas of business, retreats and fishing resorts.

Further along, he started getting in to more industrial buildings, factory and processing plants, and warehouses, many of which appeared old and abandoned.

The plans computer database told him they were, for the most part, set for demolition at some point in the near future.

Each building he past over, the screen gave a readout of information as the GPS picked up and scanned it, and it was immediately Bruce's suspicion piqued with the data which next came across the console.

A building which had once been a medical research facility, but closed down five years previous, and had been set for demolition in July of last year, had been purchased at the last minute by a Dr. Edgar G. Finius. The doctor had paid in full, cash, but as of yet, according to the records, hadn't done anything with the purchase. He'd listed "private use" as the reason for wanting it, and nobody had asked any questions.

Bruce's brow furrowed. Of course not. When you offered that kind of money, in cash, people seemed always willing to look the other way.

He looked out the cockpit window, to the building below.

He could see no activity, only some medium sized moving trucks, parked in a row near the building's front, and what he could easily spot as security cameras, mounted on what he estimated were 15 foot high polls, surrounding the facility at every corner.

Those would be easy enough to avoid.

Lucky for him, there was a wooded area just behind the building, and he knew he could land the plan there without detection, its near silent engines helping to make it so.

He maneuvered the controls, turning the aircraft back around, having to search only briefly before finding a clearing in the trees large enough to facilitate the plan.

He touched it down, avoiding even a single branch as he did, shutting the engines.

He knew the quiet of the place was likely only in appearance, most especially if it was the place he was looking for.

The security cameras indicated in the least that there would be activity within, and he would have to approach with caution.

Coming closer, he made sure to stick to the shadows, observing the cameras from below, seeing they were rotating a 180 degree angle every 20 seconds.

Plenty of time for him to avoid their lenses.

He crouched down, concealing himself in nearby shrubbery, his cowls night-vision employed as he scanned across the area, left, then right, looking for any kind of movement.

He could see none, and when he felt certain of it being all clear, he moved.

There was a blind spot on the camera's which he'd quickly noted, where the devices didn't rotate at enough of an angle, just against the back wall of the building, maybe four feet left of a dumpster. And to the right of that dumpster was a back entrance.

"_Perfect_." He thought to himself as he moved to the blind spot, flattening himself against it.

For a moment, he stood there, still, again surveying around him to make sure no one was coming.

It was as he looked to his right, to the dumpster, he noticed it. A flash of something, deep purple in color, and immediately he felt his heart freeze, rising up in to his throat.

He glanced quickly back over at the camera, seeing it begin to rotate away, and without hesitation, he stepped to the trash bin, reaching in.

Anxious dread dropped down through his stomach as he pulled the thing, holding it up in his hands.

It was a suit jacket, and not only did the rich hue give away who its owner had been, but the fineness of the lines and stitching, a superbly crafted article of clothing, of the standard the Joker had always preferred… _did_ prefer.

He was still alive. He _had_ to be.

Bruce's eyes moved down, seeing now a pair of pants, colored the same as the jacket, and a canary yellow, silk dress shirt, a pair of Italian leather loafers, black silk socks, and a silk bowtie.

These were _his _clothes. These were the Joker's clothes, and now Bruce knew this was the place, that he'd guessed correctly.

They must have stripped him the moment they had him secured, the crusader thought, and whoever had been given the task of disposing of his things had done so recklessly, simply dumping them out here, in the back.

He felt his grip tighten in the material of the jacket, his eyes squeezing shut, teeth clenching as rage filled him, hampered by sickening fear, his throat constricting as the emotion grew.

There wasn't any time for this.

The Joker was inside. He knew it now, and he was going to find him, he was going to save him…

He uncurled his hands, letting the jacket fall back to the dumpster, and without thought, without care, he moved for the back entrance, paying no mind now to the cameras. There was no time, no time for any of that...

He found the door locked as he pulled on the handle, and immediately he retrieved a small, adhesive backed explosive from his belt, placing it carefully over the lock, not bothering with trying to pick it.

He blew the thing a few, short seconds later, the lock coming undone, the entire doors handle splitting in two and falling, and he reached through the hole, tearing the entrance wide and stepping through the threshold.

The explosive hadn't been loud, but still he expected someone to have taken notice.

He was in a hallway, empty both ways, save for wall lights along either side.

Turning the night-vision in his cowl to off, he started down, to his left, and it was only moments later he ran in to a man, carrying a Glock at his side, obviously coming to investigate the noise.

His shock at seeing Batman was evident on his face, and he fell back, beginning to lift the gun.

Batman never let him get even halfway there, reaching out, grasping hold of his wrist, jerking him forward as he applied pressure to the joint, and the man cried out, the gun dropping from his fingers. Bruce kicked it away, the weapon skittering across the floor, out of view around the corner, and in the next instant, the vigilante had him up against the wall, pressing hard in to him, putting a hand against his face, over his mouth.

"Where _is_ he?" He hissed, voice like gravel, low and mean.

The man's eyes were wide as saucers, looking back in a total panic, and Bruce could feel his frame trembling beneath his hands.

"The Joker!" He spat, louder, pulling the man from the wall and slamming him back, causing his head to snap against it. "Tell me where he is!"

He took his hand from the man's mouth, and immediately he began to whimper and plead.

"P-please, I d-don't…"

"Wrong answer!" Batman raged, pushing the man easily to the floor, taking hold his elbow, pressing fingers against a cluster of nerves.

The man screamed, and again Batman spit in his face.

"TELL ME!"

"P-PL-EASE, S-STOP!" The man screamed. "I… I'LL T-TELL YOU, JUST S…"

Bruce heard the footfalls behind, and like lightening, he turned, catching the attacker as he was upon him, kicking his legs out from under him, dropping him hard to his back.

And he didn't waste a moment, rearing up, smashing the ball of his boot down across the man's wrist, crushing it, a gargled scream tearing past the man's lips as Batman leaned over him, in an instant ending his consciousness, delivering a short, hard blow to the temple.

Barely a moment past before twelve men more came barreling down the corridor, all armed.

With systematic brutality, Bruce took them out, laying waste to them in a matter of seconds, making certain not a one of them would be getting back up.

And when he was finished, he turned back to the first man, cowering against the wall, watching him with terrified eyes.

"You were _saying_?" Batman started, approaching.

"P-please, d-don't hurt m-me." He stuttered. "Th-they've got him on… o-on the s-second floor, l-lab s-six. I-it's four doors to y-your left, coming from the s-stairwell!"

Bruce said nothing, rearing a fist, laying it against the man's temple, knocking him too unconscious, the same as all the rest.

/

He was only vaguely aware of having been moved again. At least, he thought he'd been moved again.

It was hard to tell anymore, what was real and what was imagined.

A soundless chuckle pushed past his lips at the thought, the effort alone sending blistering pain through his abdomen.

He'd had hallucinations before, he was pretty sure. The doctors at Arkham had diagnosed him with some form of schizophrenia, but he couldn't at the moment recall exactly what kind.

Not like it mattered.

It all boiled down to the same thing in the end.

Hallucinations.

But he was pretty sure he'd been moved again. Pretty sure the hands he'd felt grabbing him and lifting him had been real, and the cool feel of metal beneath his back, and the brightness hurting his eyes behind their lids.

And he was also pretty sure he wasn't alone in the room.

He could hear voices, though what they were saying and who they belonged to escaped him.

Definitely he would die soon. Maybe in the next, few hours. That's what it felt like.

The Joker knew his body well, knew when it was no longer functioning on any sort of meaningful level.

It had been in that position plenty enough in the past to know.

Except, usually, in the past, when that had been the state of him, he'd been alone. No one there to make certain the job got done.

And that was how he'd always recovered. Through falling off buildings and being caught in explosions, to getting shot or stabbed or maimed in some way. Or being dunked in caustic, chemical waste.

He'd always, somehow, wound up alone.

He'd been given the time to pull through.

He wouldn't be given that time now.

They were going to keep doing this until he died. And then maybe afterwards even, maybe dissecting his corpse, using it for whatever other "experiments" the doctor had planned.

Only this wasn't an experiment, as Finius had proposed. Just the fulfillment of a man's sadistic desires.

Hypocrisy.

Why not just say what it was? He wasn't going to judge.

Another laugh rose up in his throat.

"_Well played indeed_." He thought.

They'd prepared for him well. Done everything right to make sure he wouldn't get out, wouldn't get away.

The doctor was smart as he put on. He understood this was something he had to see through, to make sure with his own eyes the job had been done.

The Joker recalled all the times in the past he'd been captured and tortured by mob don's, or other "super-criminals". And they'd all made the same mistake. They'd all thought he was finished, dumping his body before he'd really breathed his last breath.

Or simply they'd failed to properly secure him…

But not Dr. Finius.

No. Dr. Finius wouldn't make that mistake.

And so the Joker would die, in the next, few hours.

Finally, he'd be gotten.

He'd always wondered if anyone would ever get it right…

… Batman hadn't come.

That was too bad.

He'd thought surely he would.

Or at least… at least he'd try.

Batman trying though meant Batman succeeding.

Those times in the past, when he'd been abducted, well, he'd only been gone a few days those times, not long enough to notice. He was certain he'd been here at least a week though, maybe more. Batman must have noticed by now. If he'd been gone a week.

He was pretty sure it was a week.

It was hard for him to say sometimes. He'd never been very good at keeping track of time, really.

Not really.

But Batman must have noticed by now.

He just hadn't known, those times before.

But he must have known now. He must have known because they had a date, and it had been a week. And he hadn't shown up.

Batman must have known.

But he hadn't come.

And that was too bad.

He'd been sure Batman would.

But he hadn't.

Even though he must have known…

He suddenly became aware again of the pain…

And another laugh rose up, it catching in his throat as he sputtered, blood instead erupting past his lips, in to the air and on to his face.

The doctor had cut open his stomach.

At least, that's what he thought. That's what it felt like, anyway.

It was all getting a little difficult to tell.

Everything hurt.

But his stomach hurt most of all.

And he recalled the sensation of a blade, slicing down through his tummy.

He was pretty sure, because the pain had been bad. The sort that made him nauseous. And he'd thrown up.

Only he'd been lying on his back. And the bile had gone back down. And he'd started choking.

He thought he remembered someone pulling him up by the arms then, the vomit emptying out of his lungs. That must have been, because he'd been choking on it, and he'd be dead now if someone hadn't pulled him up.

Maybe he was dead.

It was getting difficult to tell.

But he didn't think so.

Not yet.

He thought about opening his eyes.

If he could look around, maybe he could tell.

But he was so tired now.

He was so tired.

"What the hell's goin' on down there?" Tommy asked, looking agitatedly towards the lab door.

"I dunno." Angel shrugged. "Some idiot tryin' to break in. Don't worry. The boys downstairs'll take care of it. Probly just some bum tryin' to find a place to sleep."

"… Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right." Tommy answered.

They looked over at the Joker, lying still on the operating table, the only movement from him the shallow rise and fall of his chest, a near inaudible wheeze coming up from his lungs.

"When's the boss gettin' here?" Lucas asked.

"Few minutes." Rich replied, walking to the madman.

He reached out, wrapping his hand round the Joker's jaw, turning his face toward him.

"Hey freak." He started. "You ready to be dickless?"

Tommy started to laugh.

"Hey man, is that what the boss really got planned?"

Rich smiled, looking back over at the other man.

"It's what I heard him say. Said he's gonna cut the freak's genitals off, and then he's gonna do his tongue. Guess he's just goin' all out, since bozo here ain't gonna last too much longer anyhow."

"Man, that's sick." Lou said. "I dunno. I dunno if I wanna watch."

"What, are ya losin' yer stomach now?" Rich asked, eyeing Lou suspiciously.

"Naw, it ain't that man, it's just… well, that shit earlier. That fuckin' shit was unreal man."

"Yeah." Angel nodded. "That _was _kinda… I dunno. I mean, the boss took his fuckin' appendix out without no painkiller, and the freak _still_ didn't scream. I mean, shit's getting' weird. What's, he feel no pain or somethin'?"

"He feels it alright." Rich said, looking back to the Joker. "You saw what happened. Damn near choked on his own vomit. And he was shakin' like a tambourine. He just… don't scream is all."

"Well I'm tellin' you man, it ain't natural." Lou went on. "Fuckin' dude gives me the creeps."

"Look at you!" Lucas laughed. "The little girl! The clown'll be dead soon anyway. So what're you scared of?"

"I ain't scared!" Lou spat. "I just… don't like it is all. It ain't natural the way he acts."

"Yeah, well, you ain't gotta worry." Rich said. "What the boss' got planned, I doubt our little princess here's gonna make it through. The blood loss alone'll probly kill em'."

For a few, long moments, the men just stood round, staring at the Joker, Rich continuing to hold his face.

"Ya hear that Joker?" He again started. "You ain't gonna make it. So what's all that tough guy act do for ya now, huh? Didn't do you no good."

"I don't think he can hear you Rich." Lucas said. "Freak's lookin' pretty ragged."

Rich frowned, shoving the Joker's head roughly away.

"Yeah, guess not." He muttered.

"Man, what the hell's takin' the boss so long?" Tommy again asked, again looking to the door.

"He'll be here man!" Angel said. "Why you trippin'? Actin' all jumpy and shit."

"I just wanna know!" Tommy spat in return. "I'm sicka' waitin' around. It's not like laughin' boy over there's gonna get up and stroll out now, is it?"

They all turned again, looking at the Joker.

Lou's mouth twisted in disgust as the madman convulsed suddenly, hacking up more blood.

"Man, this shit's gross. Why don't he just die already?"

"'Cause he's a _bad_ little fucker!" Rich said, suddenly rearing a hand back and slapping the Joker as hard as he could across the face. The lunatic's head snapped to the side, blood seeping out, past his lips and from his nose. "Ain't that right clown?" Rich laughed. "Ain't you a _bad_ mother fucker?"

There was no reply, save for the Joker's struggled breaths.

The men's laughter filled the space, amused and taken with their control over the madman.

"Joker, the dickless wonder!" Rich crowed, and the other's mirth rose.

"No more a that silver tongue 'a his either." Tommy added. "Can't wait 'till the boss gets here."

"No." A dark and heavy rasp sounded through the room, and the men turned, eyes shooting wide, consuming and immediate fear, fast filling their hearts.

"He isn't coming." Batman said. "No one's coming for you but me."


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey guys, new chapter. Thanks so much again to everyone who read and reviewed last chapter. You guys are the absolute best, including those who I'm unable to reply to. You're all appreciated. I hope you guys enjoy this one, and please, if you have the chance, let me know what you think.**

**Chapter 11:**

They scrambled backwards, instinctively, desperate, wanting to get away. To escape the horror of the mass of a man… of… of a _monster _before them.

But they would have no chance, no place to go.

More quickly then they could register, the vigilante was upon them.

And he was brutal.

Tommy was the first he would reach, and as the terrified man threw his arms up in a vain attempt to shield himself, Batman took hold, snapping the right limb at the elbow in one, swift motion.

Tommy screamed, the sound broken and pitched high, and Batman dismissed him, throwing him violently against an adjacent wall, over a trey of surgical tools, moving to the next.

Lou cried out before the crusader had even touched him, stumbling and nearly falling as he fell away, Batman reaching out, burying his thick, gauntleted fingers in the man's hair and jerking him forward.

Again Lou screamed as pain flared through his scalp, Batman's other hand coming up, gripping to his jaw and squeezing, pulling and twisting, until there was a loud snap, and Lou began to sob and wail with deafening volume, his entire body going limp, mouth hanging open unnaturally wide.

Batman dropped him, ducking as he'd long before heard the footfalls behind him, a metal rod flying over his head, and as he rose back up, he turned, catching Angel by the arm, dragging him forward, crushing his wrist.

The poll dropped from the man's fingers as he let loose a wrecked cry, Batman lifting him bodily from the floor and swinging him round, flipping him and slamming him hard against his back, over some piece of equipment, letting him slip to the ground, where he lay unmoving.

And next he caught Lucas, running for the door, kicking the man's legs out from beneath him, tumbling him to his stomach.

The vigilante came down on him, ramming an elbow to the man's lower back, causing a numbing paralysis through his body. Lucas let go an agonized wail, tears pushing fast past his eyes, down his cheeks as fear took over, and Batman buried his fingers in his hair, lifting his head from the floor, slamming it back down, breaking his face against the tile.

And then he rose, turning, seeing the last man, pressed up against the back wall, eyes wide and vibrating with horror.

"Y-YOU S-STAY AWAY! YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME!" Rich screamed.

Batman regarded him only a moment, mouth twisted in hate. And then he came nearer.

"STAY AWAY!"

Panic came, Rich looking back and forth, eyes searching for something, anything…

There was a scalpel, on the floor, and with little further thought, he went for it, reaching, fingers outstretched…

For a moment he thought he might have it in his hand.

But it was then his face collided with Batman's upward driving knee, and he went sprawling backwards, nose crushed in, exploding with blood, and he collapsed down, a writhing heap, hands coming to his face as he moaned in pain.

The vigilante snarled as he kneeled over him, burying his hand in the man's shirt, lifting him up.

"_Scum_!" He hissed low, rearing a fist back and bringing it, hard and compact against Rich's face, again, and again, blood spraying up and out, across Batman's own face.

He didn't even notice.

He just kept hitting, until the man hung limp in his hands, long since unconscious, face a crimson and ruined mask, flesh like deformed rubber beneath his knuckles.

Until finally Batman threw him down, standing, hearing the others still groaning and crying from behind.

He turned, feeling nothing but rage.

And to them he did the same, crushing his fists against their faces until there was nothing recognizable but their own ugliness, and they made no sound at all.

It wasn't enough.

It wasn't _enough_ damn it!

They weren't… weren't supposed to lose consciousness so quickly.

They were supposed to _suffer_.

He looked down at the man hanging still in his hands, at his knuckles, gauntlets covered in red.

"You were supposed to suffer!" He hissed. "You were supposed to suffer like…"

Like…

He turned, the man slipping from his fingers as his eyes fell upon the limp, unmoving form of the Joker, lying prone and naked atop a blank, stainless-steel operating table.

His heart froze, and at once quickened, pounding like thunder against his chest, his mouth and throat abruptly dry, a violent tremor working its way through his hands.

Slowly he rose, and for a long moment, he only stood, watching the madman, watching his chest. Waiting… waiting…

Please God… _please_…

Oh Christ, he wasn't _breathing_… he wasn't…

There was a surge of panic, a rush of dizziness.

Bruce felt sure he would collapse.

He was going to be sick…

He was…

But then he saw it, the shallow rise, and then fall, the bony chest just barely… barely swelling with the intake of air, deflating with its release.

Oh God…

Bruce went to him, his legs feeling heavy and trapped, like he couldn't move… he couldn't get there.

Please…

And finally he was with him, standing still by his side, above him, looking down, looking down at him…

The trembling grew worse, moving through the whole of him, the tears immediate and hot at his eyes.

Oh Christ… Oh Jesus Christ, no…

He couldn't take this. He couldn't.

Lord, give strength…

The Joker was broken.

He was so broken.

Nothing but an angry snarl of vicious bruising, contusions and lacerations, broken capillaries and grotesque swelling. There wasn't an inch of him free of it, the deep blue and black, burying faded yellow and green, purple and red. Every part of him covered in cuts, wide and gaping, unhealed from neglect, and open sores along his arms and elbows and legs. Bruce knew worst of all, along his back.

His eyes traveled over the rest of the madman, resting on his face, gaunt and swollen and cut, seeming almost to sink in on itself, like a skull with nothing but thin skin stretched across it. Blistered and peeling flesh came off, cruel pink and red from what the crusader could tell had been some scalding hot liquid.

And his hair was gone, only sparse patches of burnt black and green, scattered un-uniformed across his scalp.

His lips were blood-covered, spatters of it across his chin and cheeks, some over his closed lids, more still continuing to seep slow and dark from his mouth and nostrils.

And Bruce knew it was all his own.

Further down, the lunatic's chest continued to rise and fall, just hardly, flat and small and narrow. Like a little boys chest. Every bone of his ribcage showing through, prominent and stark, and his abdomen…

Oh God, what…

A laceration, at least eight inches in length, and half an inch thick, poorly, sloppily stitched back together, straight down the middle of his stomach, blood still percolating from between the sutures.

And the abdomen itself sank, concave from starvation, all of him the same, twice as thin then was usual, limbs appearing barely thicker then the handle of a broom, every joint, every bone evident and clear to be seen.

Nausea worked its way up from Bruce's stomach, and for a moment, he was sure he would vomit, turning away. He felt suddenly lightheaded, having to crouch, hand gripping weakly to the edge of the table the Joker lay on.

For a long moment, he stayed like this, worried should he move, he might collapse, he might faint. And still the tears pushed unrelenting at the backs of his eyes, wanting to escape, to fall freely down his face.

His grief was absolute, and his fury.

He entreated silently…

_Please God, don't_… _don't let me be too late_…

His eyes closed, feeling the blinding rush of tears, pooling, pushing past, a sob threatening in his throat.

And it nearly was at his lips when he was broken from it by another sound, a soft gasp, followed by short sputtering.

He went rigid, head snapping up.

And immediately he righted himself, looking down at the Joker's ruined form, seeing the fresh blood which had gone past his open mouth, and the uncontrollable tremor, taking his body in its grip.

Fear consumed him, utter terror…

The death rattle…

Oh God, no… please no… this couldn't be… it couldn't…

He couldn't die… not like this, _please_, Christ almighty, not like this…

He reached out, gripping the Joker's hand in his own, gripping it tight.

_Please_, _no_…

_No_…

There was a hissing noise from the madman's lips, the release of breath…

This was it… oh God, this was it. He was passing… going… going away from here…

Batman's grip tightened, his head lowering.

He couldn't take this… he couldn't look…

Suddenly there was no oxygen, his throat closing up.

He couldn't take this…

Oh God, please, _why_?

He'd been too late…

He'd been too late…

Another, quiet gasp, and then…

Something soundless…

Bruce brought his eyes up, daring to look, _needing_ to see…

And he knew in that moment, as he watched the nearly imperceptible twitching at the edges of the madman's lips, and the soft rush of air blowing from his lungs…

He was laughing…

Just barely, he was laughing…

The relief was like a wave, and Bruce felt his knees nearly give way as it crushed down on him, sweeping him up.

His other hand came forward, pushing under the Joker's head, lifting him just slightly, cradling him.

"I've got you." He said, only just above a whisper. "I've got you."

And it was enough.

The voice broke through the fog of his mind, clear and precise. He knew it. He knew it better then any.

And he focused… he focused every ounce of what he had left…

To do this one thing… to do only this…

His lids began to lift, heavy as anything, heavy as everything.

Light flooded in, blinding him, and for a moment, he didn't know if he could, the lids falling back against the harsh intrusion…

But no… no…

He would… if only for this one, last look, he would…

Again he focused, determined, and again his lids began to lift, pushing past the same flood of brightness, blinking rapidly at it.

For some seconds, there was nothing but a black, shapeless mass above him, indefinite and undefined, surrounded by the sharp beams of light from around. But he knew anyway. He knew…

More blinking, and finally, after what seemed eternity, his vision began to clear, to focus.

He saw him.

He saw the Bat.

And somehow he smiled, only just, spiting the total exhaustion of his muscles.

He focused harder.

He wanted to reach up. To touch him. Touch his face. Make sure he was real.

But that was asking too much, the limb refusing to do what his mind asked of it.

So instead he forced himself to swallow, horrible pain splitting down his too dry throat.

He would talk to him.

Then he'd know.

He would know if he could… if he could talk to him. If he could see Batman speak in return.

"Y…" he stopped, his voice coming out a cracked and broken whisper, fading in to nothing at the words end.

His brow furrowed.

He would try harder then.

"Y-y… yo-y-you… c-c-ca…ccc-came…" he at last managed, so soft it would have been missed had Bruce not been right there, right beside him.

The crusader's hand tightened round the Joker's, and for a moment, he had to look away, the well of emotion becoming too much.

"B… BBats…" he heard the Joker again speak, voice as weak as before, shaking. And he looked up. "Y-yy… you c-c…came…"

"Don't talk." Bruce implored, trying with difficulty to keep his own voice steady, further tears threatening in his eyes. "You… you're weak. You need to… to save your strength."

The Joker was staring at him with half-closed eyes, struggling clearly to keep them open, struggling to focus.

His smile grew.

So he was there.

He was really there.

"… I…" he started, the words coming slurred and difficult. "I… I'm ss-s… s-sorry…" he tried sucking in a sharp breath, tried getting the air needed, his frame shaking hard with the effort. "I'm-m s-sorr-ry f-for… ffor n… n-nnot mm-making ii-it t-to our dd-date... I dd-did… d-didn't mm-mean to st… stand y-you u… u-up B-Bats-sy."

Blood poured quicker, more thickly from his mouth as he labored to speak, each word trembling and broken.

Batman's face crumpled, letting go and bringing his hand to the Joker's face, cupping gently along his cheek.

"No…" he said. "No, don't… don't do that. It's me… it's… I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner. I'm so sorry."

The Joker's frame shook more, again silent laughter pushing past his lips.

"… Y… y-you're s-so c-c… c-cute wh-w-when y-y-you're ups-sset BBa… Ba" he went on, unable to finish as his energy grew spent.

"Stop talking." Batman ordered. "You need to save your strength. I'm… I'm going to get you out of here. I'm…"

He paused.

And the Joker kept looking at him, gaze unfaltering despite the threat of his heavy lids, despite just wanting… just wanting to close his eyes and go to sleep.

He was so tired. So very, very tired.

Batman looked back, his heart sinking.

Oh God, look what they'd done to him…

Look what they'd done.

He was so frail.

Bruce had never noticed… never really noticed how _small_ the Joker was. How he was built like a… like a child almost. Just longer, taller.

He had the frame of a boy.

_Looked _as a boy, lying there, battered and broken, too weak to talk now, to control the trembling in his limbs even.

"I'm going to get you out of here." He repeated. "It's going to be okay. I promise it's… it's going to be okay for you."

And for a long moment, the Joker continued to hold his gaze, still smiling, still shaking.

Until at last even that became too much, and his lids began to fall, his eyes closing fully.

Batman watched him a long, few seconds, watched the shallow, uneven rise and fall of his chest.

"Please…" he begged in a whisper. "Please don't die."

There was no answer, no stir from the lunatic. And Bruce knew then he'd fallen unconscious, overcome by his exhaustion.

He straightened slightly, releasing a shaking breath.

There was no time to lose.

He had to get the Joker out of here as quickly as possible. Get him hooked up to life-support.

The condition he was in, he could go any minute.

Any minute.

It only seemed to occur to him then the madman was without any clothes, and looking around, he could see none to dress him in.

There wasn't any time for that anyway.

An idea suddenly came to him, and reaching up, he unhooked his cape, bringing it around.

He was about to reach out, to lift the Joker up and wrap the garment around him.

But he didn't get the chance as he heard the voice behind him, flustered and filled with rage…

"You! You weren't supposed to come! You weren't supposed to come for him!"

He turned, and in the doorframe, he saw a man, likely in his mid to late 60s, a heavy upper-class Southern accent adorning his words.

Dr. Edgar Finius, Bruce presumed.

There could be little doubt.

"You dare come here and… and disrupt my _work_? My _experiments_!"

And now the crusader's own rage returned, and he turned fully, glaring at the man with unconcealed hatred.

"Your _work_?" He asked, voice incredulous and full of distain.

He didn't have time for this.

The _Joker_ didn't have time for this.

"Look what you've _done_." He seethed. "Your experiments are nothing but an exercise in _torture_."

"I was testing the bounds of the human will!" Finius shot back. "The human capacity for pain!"

"ON A MAN WHO _HAS_ NO BOUNDS!" Batman yelled in reply. "A MAN BEYOND CARING CANNOT _BEG_!"

He stalked towards the doctor, threatening.

And Finius stepped back, eyes growing wide.

"You tell yourself you don't know. But you _do_." The vigilante hissed. "It would be _impossible_ for you not to. Yet you kept _torturing_ him, knowing what you know. Knowing he would never _ask _you to stop."

Batman came nearer, and again, the doctor stepped back.

"I thought I knew what a monster was. I thought _he_ was a monster." He gestured back towards the Joker. "But now I know I was wrong. He isn't a monster. Only sick. _You_… _you _are. You're a monster. And these… _men_ of yours. You're all monsters. You're all _evil_."

For a moment, there was silence, Dr. Finius regarding the vigilante with furious eyes, mouth twisting in to a frown, fear replaced by anger.

He snarled…

"And you are a FOOL!" His voice rose. "As big a fool as he! Did you know I offered the madman his freedom in exchange for your identity? But he _refused_!" The doctor barked out a sharp peel of laughter. "A _clown_ indeed! His loyalty to you would have been _touching_, if not for it being so _pathetic_! You can be sure he _suffered_ for it though. _Stupid_ boy that he is. Look where he's gotten himself!" Again he laughed. "Reduced to the _nothing_ he always was! He won't make it through this night. Boys like him need to be taught a _lesson_! As do boys like _you _Batman! So you both can _die_ here, and that shall be the sole accomplishment your loyalty to _each other_!"

He saw the move, the doctor reaching for the inside of his coat. And with swiftness guided by purpose, by rage, he dug in to his own belt, bringing up the batarangs, throwing them with vicious and true precision.

The metal edged weapons dug in to Finius' arm, deep, and the man cried out, the fingers which had only just started wrapping round his guns handle releasing, the weapon falling loud to the floor.

And Batman was on him, hands burying in the doctor's shirt, tearing him up from the floor.

Finius screamed, loud and wavering as terror robbed him of his control, his hands gripping weakly to the vigilante's thick wrists.

Bruce bared his teeth, grinding in hatred, eyes filled with brutal intent.

"I should _end _you." He hissed, voice black and calm.

The doctor stared down at him, eyes huge and glistening, mouth hung open and without words.

Batman wanted to _hurt _him.

He wanted to hurt him _so much_.

And with a surge of what felt like need, he swung the older man round, in to the room, letting him go to fly across the space and crash hard in to an array of instruments and machinery.

Finius landed, first against his shoulder, then over, on to his stomach, a cry of pain tearing from his lungs.

He struggled, trying desperately to scramble up, to get to his feet, panicked.

But before he could even reach his knees, the crusader was again on him, taking him by the hair and collar, dragging him up.

Spotting the bathroom across from them, he needed nothing beyond the initial thought to start pulling Finius towards it, forcing him through the doors threshold and over the toilet.

It hadn't been flushed, one of the men's doing, and Batman's lip curled, shoving down against the back of the doctor's head and shoulders.

A shocked gasp tore from Finius' throat, just before he was submerged in to the bowels water, and the crusader held him under, hard, not allowing his flailing body up even an inch.

Batman's teeth ground in rage.

"How does it feel?" He spat. "How does it feel, not to be able to fight back? This is all you deserve, you _trash_! This is all you _are_!"

He tore the doctor back from the water, and again Finius gasped, sharply, trying desperately to get air to his lungs.

"P-please…" he sputtered. "P-please, don't…"

It only served to further the vigilante's disgust.

And he drove the older man's head back under.

"_You'd_ ask for mercy?" He asked, incredulous. "You don't see your own _damned_ hypocrisy?"

Again he pulled Finius up, and the doctor sputtered and hacked.

"P-p-please! I-I t-tried… I t-tried g-giving it. But he… he w-wouldn't ask! He w-wouldn't a-ask!"

"BECAUSE HE _COULDN'T_!" Batman raged.

His fist tightened in the doctor's hair, getting ready to again plunge him beneath the water.

"Wait…"

He froze, hearing a voice behind him, and slowly he turned, keeping his hold on Finius.

And there he saw standing another man, younger, obviously fit, well built from the looks of him.

He was holding a gun, aiming it directly at the crusader.

_Stupid_, Bruce thought angrily to himself. He'd been so consumed, so wrapped up in his desire to humiliate Finius, he hadn't even heard the other man approach.

And now he'd jeopardized the Joker's chances further.

_Damn it_.

"Let him go Batman." Laurence instructed, voice calm, unwavering.

Batman only stood, stark still, eyes fixed on the assistant, mouth pulled in to a severe frown.

Finius sputtered, face red.

"You heard him!" He spat. "Let me go!"

But still the vigilante didn't move

Laurence appeared unfazed, stepping back.

"Let him go Batman." He repeated. And without diverting his gaze, he stepped towards the unconscious form of the Joker.

Batman started, panic dropping down through is stomach as he followed the other man, dragging the doctor with him.

"Let him go, or I'll shoot him in the head." The assistant said, moving the barrel of his gun, pressing it down along the madman's temple.

The crusader's panic grew, his entire frame tensing as both anger and fear exploded inside him.

His teeth clenched, fingers curling tighter in Finius' hair.

He didn't have a choice now. And he'd allowed the situation to become unpredictable.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_. He chastised himself inwardly.

How could he have let this happen?

A moment past, his gaze burning holes in Laurence as he stood frozen, the assistant staring back at him, equally focused.

And then with a grunt of frustration, he shoved the doctor away and down from him.

Finius crawled forward a few feet, towards Laurence, desperate and wild before seeming to realize he'd escaped the vigilante's grasp, trying quickly to regain his composure.

"Now step away Batman." Laurence said, eyes still on the detective. "Over there." He gestured aside with a nod of his head.

"If you do anything to harm him…" Bruce began, voice low, menacing.

"Step _away_ Batman." Laurence cut him off. "_Now_."

Bruce glared, again realizing he had no say in the matter.

His dismay grew as the situation sunk in.

This man could shoot the Joker right now, and there would be nothing he could do to stop it. He had his gun right against the lunatic's temple, and unless he was Superman, there was no way he could react quickly enough to stop him.

And it was _his_ fault. His own, ridiculous fault! He'd allowed his anger, his disgust to get in the way. He should have… should have just taken Finius out, grabbed the Joker and gotten him the hell out of here.

But he'd wanted to punish the doctor, wanted to humiliate and reduce him to begging.

Oh God, if the Joker died because of this… if this man shot him, he would never forgive himself. He would never…

"Shoot him!" Dr. Finius suddenly snapped, pushing himself to his feet and fixing the assistant with angry eyes. "Shoot the God damned freak! Put him out of his misery."

He turned towards Batman suddenly, a smug grin sliding in to place.

"You've _failed_ Batman." He said. "Didn't I say the both of you would die here tonight? Well, now you get to watch your so called _great_ rival take his final breath. Hardly the blaze of glory I'm sure you might have imagined for each other. But then, little boys like yourselves tend to exaggerate your own sense of drama. And after you watch Laurence blow this pathetic freaks brains out, knowing it's _all your fault_, well then you get to experience the same. But don't despair too greatly. At least there's the poetic nature of it all, dying with the man you've for _so long_ fought against."

Nauseating tension filled Bruce's insides, rage and dread and horror taking him all at once.

What was he going to do? Oh Jesus Christ, what was he going to do?

He couldn't… couldn't just stand here. Couldn't just let this happen.

He had to think, to act.

He could hit the assistant with his batarangs, and maybe get them off before the man could react against the trigger. But there was still the risk of him pulling it reflexively, especially if the batarangs hit upon a nerve cluster.

He could possibly take Finius again, threaten to slice open his throat if the man didn't take his gun from the Joker's temple.

The likelihood of him being able to execute any of this before Laurence could shoot was next to nothing, but if he didn't do something, the man was going to kill the Joker anyway, and then him…

Oh Christ… _Christ_…

Long moments of anxious silence past, Batman's mind racing, heart pounding, caught between hopeless indecision.

"Well?" Finius turned towards Laurence as the expected gunshot didn't sound. "What the hell are you waiting for? Kill him already!"

And finally Laurence's eyes moved from Batman, fixing on his employer.

He said nothing, his face expressionless.

"Well go on you fool!" Finius hissed. "Or do I have to do it myself? Very well, if you've decided you no longer have the stomach, I'll…"

He fell silent as the younger man pulled the gun slowly from the Joker's head, lifting its barrel, pointing it forward, pointing it at him, at his face…

Confusion flashed across the doctor's features, the expression quickly melting in to annoyance, and then anger.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He asked. "Get that God damned thing out of my fa…"

"Shut up." Laurence said. "Just… shut up. Don't talk anymore. Don't say another word."

"Laurence, what are you…"

"No more." Again the assistant cut him short. "No more of this."

His head shook, the stoicism finally melting from his face as it twisted in to an agonized frown, brows knitting together, eyes growing at once glassy.

And Finius' anger was fast to dissipate as he saw how upset the younger man was. He swallowed, thick and painful, a trembling coming up through him as he glimpsed the intent in Laurence's eyes.

Batman saw it too, and all he could think was this was his chance.

His frame tensed as he readied himself to reach for his batarangs.

But it was already too late.

Finius' mouth fell open in a wordless plea, nothing emitting as he thought to beg for his life.

"God help us." Laurence whispered.

And then he pulled the trigger, the shot exploding, deafeningly loud. And the doctors head erupted from the back, bone and brain and blood spraying outwards, washing over the clean white of the floor, his lifeless body collapsing fast and hard to the ground.

Batman flinched at the sound, eyes growing wide as he saw Laurence turn the gun to himself, shoving the barrel past his own lips, past his teeth.

"NO!" He yelled, stepping forward, hand outreached.

But he could do nothing.

Laurence squeezed the trigger, his head exploding from the back as the doctors had, spraying over the wall and floor, half on to the Joker as he lay unmoving.

And too like the doctor, the assistant's body fell, a dead heap.

Batman was silent as he stood, staring at the scene before him, the two, dead bodies, for a long, few moments remaining still.

And he realized suddenly, he felt nothing for them.

He realized he felt nothing at all.

Only when his eyes again lifted to the Joker did any sense return, the crushing despair and desperation.

He'd wasted enough time.

And he had to get him out of here.

He had to get him out of here now.


	12. Chapter 12

**Hey guys! New chapter! Finally, right? I'm REALLY sorry for the long delay. I've just been a bit swamped lately, what with working on my other stories and everything else. But I finally finished it. I just want to give a huge thank you to EVERYONE who left me a review on the last chapter. You're more appreciated then you know, and to everyone who just read as well. I'm honored that you like my story. So anyway, without further delay…**

**Chapter 12:**

The Joker weighed nothing, like dust in his hands.

When he'd begun to lift him from the table, again readying his cape to wrap round the lunatic's exposed body, he'd nearly grown sick again, nausea returning and forcing its way up from his stomach.

He hadn't been able to keep his eyes from wandering over the Joker's back as he held him in a sitting position, and then further down as he leaned him forward slightly and up, trying to get the cape under his bottom.

Moisture had risen up in the vigilante's eyes at the sight of it, the madman's entire backside torn to shreds, bloody and blistered and ripped open, the results of having been violently and repeatedly raped.

And the queasiness had come with the feel of the Joker's body, nothing but bone and thin skin to cover it. There was no fat, no seeming muscle even. He literally was wasting away, his joints sticking grotesquely and pronouncedly out.

Finally having secured the garment underneath him, Batman then wrapped it gently, loosely around the Joker's emaciated frame, and then lifted him bodily, one arm placed underneath his upper back, wrapping around for his hand to lye on the thin chest, the other underneath the lunatic's legs, a little above where the knees bent.

And he held the Joker against him, as though cradling a small child, letting the madman's head fall and rest against his broad chest.

A pained moan pushed past the thin man's lips, blood drizzling, slow and thick from his nose and mouth, down over the crusader's armored torso.

But Bruce didn't care about that, only that the Joker was bleeding so profusely.

There were cuts in his mouth, the detective was sure, numerous and deep, though he hadn't yet time to examine him. He'd seen, as the Joker had spoken to him, several of his teeth missing, though he didn't know either the extent of the damage there.

He would find all this out soon enough.

But Batman knew also, with how rapidly and brightly the blood slipped from the Joker's lips, and the paleness of the madman's gums, that he was bleeding internally, most surely from having been so brutally beaten, so often.

The majority of the blood he saw was coming from within.

And that meant he was running out of time, and fast.

He turned, holding the Joker as tightly as he could without crushing him, without hurting him. He was absolutely certain most of the lunatic's ribs were in the very least cracked, likely broken, and he could feel from the way his bones shifted under his skin that several of those had fractured, in his arms and legs. He'd noticed too many of the madman's fingers had been snapped and turned against their natural direction, the sight of it sickening.

Bruce fought not to think of it, to think of it happening, any of it, to force the images of the Joker being tortured from his mind, what he must have felt in those moments...

It would only cause his emotion to swell, and then slow him down.

And he owed the Joker more then that.

He moved quickly, being careful at once not to jar the broken man he carried, through the door, through the facility. Back the way he came.

Bodies lay strewn about the floor, most totally unconscious, only a few rolling about, dazed and unaware, moaning in agony.

Batman had spared no one, making certain each was rendered incapacitated, guaranteeing his fast exit.

He would be informing the New York City Police of this place, and everyone in it, as soon as he reached the plane and had the Joker secured.

Reaching the outside, he realized he hadn't at all noticed the cold, but now became painfully aware of it as he felt the madman's trembling form beneath his hands, against his chest.

Fall was coming.

Bruce held him tighter, trying as best he could to keep the cape wrapped round the Joker's bony frame.

He couldn't let him be out here long. He couldn't let him get too cold.

With blunt determination, he made for the plane, sitting, waiting in the thicket of trees he'd left it in.

"Hatch." He spoke loudly, clearly as he neared it, and suddenly the aircraft came to life, the back of it opening up like some great mouth.

And without breaking his stride, Batman stepped on to the descending ramp, in to the warmth of the plane.

Still the Joker shook, uncontrolled in his arms, and the crusader knew, more then the cold, it was the weakness of the thin man, too frail to keep himself at all steady.

There was a bed, along the right wall, surrounded by medical equipment, an oxygen machine, IV drip, heart rate monitor.

Quickly, Bruce stepped towards it, laying the Joker down gently, with the fear of breaking him further.

With care, he began removing the cape from under him, trying with everything he had not to hurt the lunatic, a rush of panic dropping down through him as again, a moan pushed past the Joker's lips, his face contorting in agony.

And for a moment, Bruce froze, watching him, suddenly afraid to touch him.

The vulnerability of him was surreal, something the vigilante still couldn't quite believe.

Raw and unmitigated as he stared down at him. Without the blazing focus of the Joker's eyes staring back, and his silver tongued wit to run circles round your brain, he seemed no threat at all, helpless entirely, only a man of painfully slight build. A man who looked as though, in a fight, he never would have any chance at all.

Batman had engaged the Joker enough times to know that wasn't true. The madman knew how to fight. But looking at him now, the crusader only just came to realize, it had always been the Joker's mad energy which gave him the appearance of strength, not so much the actual, physical existence of it.

He wasn't strong, he wasn't powerful.

And it had only been his will, the strength of _that,_ which had kept him alive through this. Which had ever kept him going.

Bruce shook his head from the thoughts, peeling off the gauntlets covering his hands, dropping them to the floor before bending down and retrieving from beneath the bed a pile of blankets and pillows.

And with prudence, he slid his hand underneath the Joker's head, lifting it slowly, only slightly to slip the pillow beneath it, trying to ignore the feel of the madman's exposed scalp along his palm and fingers, the softness of what tufts of hair remained, the bruised and burnt flesh, how thin it was, like the slightest pressure might break it open.

He reached for one of the blankets, grey wool, gingerly covering the Joker's naked lower half, sliding his eyes away from his exposed genitals, feeling wrong to look, like he was somehow taking advantage by doing so.

This man had been taken advantage of enough.

He then turned towards the the IV, checking to make certain the bag was filled with fluids.

He could tell just from how brittle the Joker's skin was that he was severely dehydrated, a condition which went without saying. He needed water quickly.

Taking hold the madman's arm, lifting it, he located the vein in the crook above the elbow.

There were track marks, running all up and down the limb, many of them recent. They'd been pumping him full of drugs, probably sedatives. But the agitated skin around other punctures indicated some poisonous substance.

He'd noticed similarly reddened, inflamed areas all over the lunatic, the worst being a puncture wound along his neck, the surrounding skin dark and deeply bruised.

Likely some kind of neurotoxin.

The Joker had an unnaturally strong resistance to chemical toxins, he knew. His unique physiology likely the only reason he'd survived it.

That didn't make him immune to the pain those poisons caused.

Bruce was certain Dr. Finius had known that.

An eruption of anger flared through him at the thought, and he tried to push it back down. Neither he nor the Joker could afford the distraction.

Reaching in to his belt, he pulled a small bottle of alcohol and a plastic baggy filled with cotton swabs. Opening each, he poured a small amount of the alcohol out, on to a swab, and then again took hold the Joker's arm, finding the vein and rubbing the area down, disinfecting it.

The Joker was filthy, Bruce only just seemed to notice, a fine layer of dirt coming up off his skin.

He would need to be washed.

But that wasn't priority right now.

Taking hold the needle on the IV drip, he easily inserted it in to the vein, his eyes flicking to the Joker's face, watching for any sign of discomfort. But the lunatic didn't move, his expression unshifting.

His breathing was shallow, barely there, his chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly.

Blood still trickled from out the madman's mouth and nose, slow but steady, fresh.

Taking up a box of sanitary wipes, the vigilante dabbed softly against the Joker's lips and nostrils, cleaning the blood away.

And finally then he reached for the oxygen mask, flipping the machine to on.

With the same care of before, he slid his hand underneath the Joker's head, lifting it up off the pillow. And now he slid the mask over him, securing it from behind and placing it gently over his face.

It was all he could do for the moment, and so he lifted the blanket up, bringing it to the Joker's chest, covering the rest of him.

Still, the lunatic shook uncontrollably, and so Bruce took up another blanket, draping it across.

For a long, few moments, he just stood there, watching the thin man. Watching his steady, weak breaths, the slight twitches through his face every, few seconds.

And Bruce wondered if he was dreaming.

Until finally he pulled himself from the sight, moving for the planes controls.

Punching in the code, the planes hatch began to shut, and he then reached for the communicator, switching it on.

"Alfred." He began, voice clipped.

It would take only seconds for the butler to respond, his clean articulation coming over the receiver.

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

"I found him." The vigilante replied.

A moment of silence.

"The Joker, Sir?"

"Yes." Batman again answered.

Another moment of silence.

"Dare I ask the state of him, Master Bruce?"

"Not good." He replied.

"Is he _alive_ Sir?" The butler pressed.

"Just barely Alfred." Came the again short answer. "I need you to prepare the cave."

"… You aren't planning on bringing him _here_ Sir?"

"I don't have a choice Alfred." The crusader said. "I can't risk him being placed in a hospital. He's too weak. If anyone gets any sort of ideas about him, there wouldn't be anything he could do."

"I understand your position Master Bruce." Alfred answered. "But I assume you fully aware then of the risks involved, bringing the madman here?"

"Of course." Bruce said. "I'm not stupid."

"I wasn't implying you to be Sir. Only pointing out how your emotions regarding the matter may well be interfering with your ability to rationalize."

"I'm _rational_ Alfred." Batman was fast to reply, slight irritation in his voice. "Look, we don't have _time_ for this. The Joker is _dying_. He's bleeding internally Alfred. We need to get him set up and stabilized as soon as possible. I need you to prepare the cave. We'll be there in fifteen minutes."

And before the butler could respond, Batman cut the link, not wasting a moment more as he started the planes engines, lifting back up, in to the night sky, leaving behind the facility, with the doctor and all his men.

/

He was in a coma.

Bruce hadn't even realized it until he'd gotten him here, hadn't realized that the Joker had slipped in to one the moment he'd lost consciousness, back at that facility.

Alfred had done as he asked, ever faithful, even when he wasn't in agreement with the detective's actions, setting up a bed and all necessary equipment.

He'd been standing by the moment the plane had docked, waiting outside the hatch as it opened.

And even the butler hadn't been able to hide his shock at the condition of the lunatic, as Bruce had carried him out in his arms, still wrapped loosely in the blanket.

He'd been silent as the vigilante carried the Joker to the bed, laying him across it. And as Bruce had removed the blanket from the madman's battered form, a quiet gasp had released from Alfred's lips, his eyes widening.

"Good Lord." He'd breathed.

Bruce had pulled the cowl from his head, tossing it to the ground before beginning to clean his hands in a nearby wash basin, instructing Alfred to do the same.

But the older man had been ahead of him, sterilizing his hands already.

It had taken hours before they'd at last stabilized the lunatic, before he was away from imminent danger, pulled back from the edge of death.

It had been Alfred who'd handled the majority of the procedures, who'd eventually gotten control of and stopped the internal bleeding, re-stitched the laceration along the Joker's abdomen, and cleaned out and sutured the remaining wounds and puncture marks.

Bruce had tended to the burns along the Joker's face and scalp, having the shave what little remained of the lunatic's hair.

He'd asked Alfred to examine the inside of the Joker's mouth, knowing the butler had gained experience in dentistry while also receiving his medical training with the British Army Intelligence, knowing also it would have been ideal, and infinitely easier if the older man were able to himself perform whatever oral surgery was required, rather then having to bare the risk of smuggling a dentist in from the outside.

And to his relief, Alfred had confirmed he would be able to remedy the damage to the madman's teeth, noting it would be mostly implants anyway, and he had much experience, drilling posts and securing the porcelain replacements, for soldiers who'd had their teeth blown out in battle.

Though, he'd explained, he wouldn't be able to safely perform any such procedures until the Joker had woken from his coma, and that in the meantime, all they could do was control the bleeding inside his mouth with gauze and bags of tee.

It had been Alfred who'd been the one to diagnose the Joker's comatose state, and for the last, several days now, Bruce had barely once left the madman's side.

He'd given him a bed bath, washing him as well he could, changing his dressing every few hours, keeping the gauze and tea bags between his bleeding gums and dabbing softly along his forehead with a wet cloth when, periodically he broke in to a sweat.

It wasn't at all certain, whether the Joker would actually make it through, whether he would even _wake up_.

His vitals were dangerously weak, low blood pressure and a slow heart rate. Bruce feared without rest what should happen if the lunatic's brain activity ceased.

If it became apparent the Joker _wouldn't_ wake up.

He wasn't sure he could do what was necessary then.

He wasn't sure at all.

He refused to go, neglecting his usual patrol routes, having Alfred ask Tim to take up his usual duties for the next week, having him tell his partner it might be longer still.

And when he needed to sleep, which was sparsely, he would ask the butler to stand watch for him, and to wake him should anything develop.

It had been more then once, Bruce hadn't been able to help himself, as he knelt beside the Joker, his elbows rested on the bed, holding tight to the madman's hand, and he'd broken down in tears, weeping silently in to the sheets as he hid his face against them, distraught at the Joker's condition, disgusted and enraged at his own failure to have found him sooner, to have rescued him before this… _horror _befell him.

Oh God, if the Joker died… if he died…

Agony gripped the crusaders heart at the thought.

It had been five days now, the Joker showing no signs of waking, and Bruce stared down at him, sitting beside his bed, grim lines across his face, brow furrowed in grief.

Oh God, what if he didn't make it through…

/

There was light from blackness, the darkness of closed eyes, not of blindness or unconsciousness.

He recognized it quickly.

But still he found it impossible to lift his lids, like they were weighted down with some absurdly heavy thing, and he thought then, if he couldn't open his eyes, he might as well be blind.

For a long time too, there was no sound, nothing at all in his ears, and he wondered also if he would be deaf, feelings of amusement if, with all this, he found himself dumb too.

How very ridiculous it would be.

Maybe they'd cut his ears off and sewn his eyes shut?

He couldn't feel anything right now, so he couldn't really tell.

Greater amusement took him as he thought, perhaps they'd severed his spine, and he now found himself paralyzed and without feeling of any sort.

Indeed, indeed, it would be difficult to recover from such a state.

But, he thought, as long as his mind was in tact, he could always do something. It would just be a matter of getting others to carry out his ideas.

Notions of losing his senses began to dissipate though as muffled, white noise suddenly filled his head, and sensation started pouring in to the tips of his fingers and tows, though it was dull and indistinct.

Alright then.

He wasn't deaf, and he was pretty sure he wasn't paralyzed either.

That was good, he supposed.

And he supposed too he should maybe try harder then to open his eyes.

And so he did, focusing entirely on the task, and after several minutes of doing so, he was sure something so simple had never been quite so difficult, his lids began to flutter, and the light he'd seen behind them began to flood in, muted but still painful.

His lids closed fully against it, and then suddenly there was something more then just he white noise in his ears.

He heard something shifting beside him, _felt_ it, and so then determined to again try opening his eyes, curiosity taking hold.

He couldn't remember anything.

He couldn't remember what had happened.

Only that he was prisoner to some would be villainous doctor.

The thought made him want to laugh.

He wouldn't classify that fool as anything more then an amateur, and those goons of his didn't even qualify as _that_.

If he ever did get out of here, oh, he was going to show them how really it was _done_. Educate them on the ineffectualness of their methods.

Sensation started coming back stronger to him now, as he worked to again lift his lids, bearing the discomfort of the light searing his eyes, and slowly he was becoming more aware of the rest of him, and of the pain…

He didn't feel very good.

He didn't feel very good at all.

He focused harder, and finally, again, his lids began to lift fully, and he blinked rapidly against the brightness overhead, refusing to let his eyes slip back shut.

Nothing was in focus, everything undefined shape and color.

And again he heard the shift, again he felt it.

And a different sound now, unintelligible to him.

It sounded like being under water.

He'd been under water enough times to know.

Everything distant and surreal.

Moments past, his eyes continuing to blink. He could feel tears in them, slipping down, over his temples, in to his hair, trying to dampen the dried out state of them. They hurt, not just from the light above. He knew it was lack of moisture. It made them feel as though sandpaper had been dragged across his retinas.

There was a lovely thought.

Maybe he could try that on someone sometime.

If he ever got out of here.

There was that sound again, and now it came more clear, though still he wasn't certain.

Was it a voice?

Was someone talking?

His sight began to better focus, though it hardly mattered, as all he was met with was the blinding glare of what must have been a lamp overhead, and his eyes narrowed against it, still refusing to close.

"Jogra…"

_What_?

Definitely, he thought now, that must be a voice.

He tried to listen.

"Jokah, an ou ear ee…"

Tone… tone… he needed to listen for the tone… or was that the timbre? He needed to listen for the timbre…

Again, there it was.

"Jokah, an ou ear me?"

His brow furrowed.

The timbre, listen for the _timbre_.

He couldn't understand what the hell this person was saying.

Jesus, he really didn't feel good.

"Joker, _please_, look at me if you can hear me."

There it was, suddenly, coming clear as day.

He knew that voice, as well as he knew his own.

He blinked, the sudden _need_ to turn and see upon him.

But damn it, his body wasn't doing as his mind told it, and now he felt the weight of exhaustion, pinning him down, keeping him still.

"_Look at me. Look at me so I can see you._"

And suddenly the light above him faded out, replaced by a shapeless, black mass, and he knew… even before his vision adjusted, he knew.

He'd seen that same shape above him, countless times before, above him as he came to from nothing.

He stared, refusing to look away, to close his eyes at all, until finally the shapeless mass began to take form, and the familiar face of the vigilante came to his sight.

And now he remembered, the last of what he'd seen before the world had turned dark, Batman above him, beside him, gripping his hand, promising… promising him something… promising him it would be alright.

He'd wanted to laugh, and tell the dear how nothing was ever alright.

But he'd been too weak, too tired…

"Joker…" He was speaking now, and the Joker felt reasonably sure this wasn't a dream. "Can you hear me?"

"_Well of course I can hear you Bats. Don't be ridiculous_." He said.

Or… he thought he'd said…

But then he realized he hadn't produced any actual sound, save for a feeble groan.

And then Batman was reaching across him, to somewhere out of his view, a moment later leaning back, holding what the Joker thought was a bottle of water in his hand, a straw sticking out from its top.

"Here." He started, taking the straw between his un-gauntleted fingers, positioning it near the Joker's lips. "Drink this."

But all the madman could focus on at the moment was Batman's hands.

He didn't think… he didn't think he'd ever seen him without his gloves before, and suddenly he couldn't take his eyes off those hands.

They were as big as his own, as long, but much thicker… much _stronger_ looking, meat hook fingers and palms like slabs of granite.

He was shaken from it when he felt the straw jab lightly against his lips, and his eyes finally rose to the crusader's own.

"Open your mouth Joker." He said, voice stern. "You need to drink this."

And the Joker thought to laugh, happy to find something familiar within the masked man.

But again, no sound came.

He wasn't even certain he was smiling, despite thinking he should be,

He couldn't feel the expression at the corners of his lips now.

He heard Batman sigh, apparent exasperation in it, and suddenly the vigilante was forcing the straw past his lips, in to his mouth.

"Drink it." He repeated, and there wasn't a hint of levity there.

The Joker kept his eyes on him, staring up at him, and abruptly he wondered if the two of them had actually made it, or if they were dead, and this was hell.

"Come on." Batman pushed. "Suck the straw. I know it's difficult, but you have to try."

The Joker could feel drops of moisture, falling and evaporating quickly on his tongue, and suddenly he was aware of how viciously dry his throat was.

It hurt.

And without thinking, like some sort of reflex, his lips closed round the straw, and he sucked in sharply, the cold liquid filling his mouth and pouring, too fast down his esophagus.

Almost immediately, he began to choke, sputtering and then coughing violently as his body tried to expel the water out.

Batman reacted quickly, placing the bottle down on a nearby table before reaching out, taking the Joker by his thin wrists, pulling him up from his back, in to a sitting position.

The madman continued to hack, uncontrolled, gasping loudly as his lungs tried desperately to breathe air in to them.

"It's okay." Batman started, leaning the Joker forward, supporting him with an arm across his chest, hand cupping over his bony shoulder. He began to rub and lightly pat along the lunatic's back, and the Joker flinched at the coldness of his hands. "It's okay. You just swallowed a little too quickly and it went down the wrong tube. Just breathe. You're okay. You're okay."

There was something in the vigilante's voice, something unrecognizable to the madman.

Something which sent a wave of unsettlement through him, and he continued to choke and cough and shake in Batman's arms, more tears having pooled, inadvertent in his eyes, slipping down his cheeks now, more sharp and frantic gasps tearing from his throat as his lungs failed to attain enough oxygen.

"You're okay. You're okay. Just breathe." Batman repeated, continuing to rub and pat his back, and now he'd leaned the Joker all the way over, so that he was lying against the crusader's broad chest, shuddering against him with each, desperate inhalation.

Okay, this must be some sort of joke.

Either that, or this really _was_ hell.

Because really, the Joker could think of no situation more strange.

Maybe he was dreaming?

But this felt too _real_ to be a dream.

Christ, he could hear Batman's heartbeat against his ear as he slumped, limp against him, feeling no strength within himself to pull back.

And it seemed like forever before, finally, he felt air in his lungs, and the choiceless hacking began at last to slow, punctuated still by painful gasping he had no control over.

"That's it…" the vigilante continued, still patting his back. "just breathe. You're going to be okay."

The Joker continued sputtering slightly, his sharp and labored breaths finally starting to even out, growing less pronounced, less violent, until it ceased completely, and he simply sank against the crusader, still trembling, body flaccid.

And slowly Batman began to lower him down again, on to his back, staring the Joker in the face as the lunatic watched him in return.

The Joker swallowed with difficulty, trying to wet his still dry throat, to get the muscles working again.

This was funny in only the most ironic sense.

Batman, treating him like some deprived and unheard victim.

Like a child needing reassurance.

Laughter rose up in his throat, coming out a strangled noise.

And again Batman had taken up the bottle of water, holding the straw near his lips.

"Drink more slowly." He said, his voice not quite as demanding as before. "Just take it easy."

The Joker kept his eyes on the crusader, even as the straw was again pushed past his lips.

"Go on." Batman urged.

And his lips closed around it, sipping slower this time.

The water burned like fire still, going down his throat, but he didn't choke this time, so there was always that.

He continued watching the Bat, his mind working to figure this all out.

All he remembered was lying on a metal table in that lab, feeling like he'd literally just been dropped off the world's highest skyscraper, those idiot men jabbering away at each other.

And the next thing he knew, Batman had been over him, and he'd looked so _distraught_.

More distraught then the Joker could recall having seen him in recent years.

The vigilante was always so good with concealing his emotions, after all, though that never really stopped _him _from gleaning what he was thinking and feeling, much to the Bats chagrin.

"_Sucks having a soul mate, huh_?" He'd once said to him, and Batman had responded by laying his fist against his jaw.

And well that was the thing, wasn't it?

Batman wasn't exactly what one would call timid when it came to handing out physical beatings.

The Joker knew he must have been an awful wreck, but why the crusader seemed so upset about it, he couldn't really figure out.

Certainly, it was vexing his brain, the way Batman was now treating him, handling him with _care_.

He didn't like being _vexed_.

So he thought to just ask.

Finally Batman pulled the straw away, looking the Joker in the face.

"Good?" He asked.

Sensation was returning more acutely to the madman now, with it an enveloping but diluted pain, all through his body. He knew he was on morphine from the sensation. He'd been on that junk enough times in his life to know what it felt like. Without it, he knew likely he would be in near unbearable agony.

Unbearable for _most_.

Feeling in his face was increasing, and he could feel himself smile now, the corners of his lips pulling up weakly, the muscles beneath sore and protesting against the action.

He ignored it.

"_Brilliant_ darling." He was finally able to speak, his voice nothing but a croaked whisper, barely there at all.

Batman stared back at him a long moment, his mouth pulled in to a thin line, and in his eyes, the Joker could see pain and exhaustion, and terrible relief.

Suddenly he turned away, replacing the bottle on the table, and the lunatic knew he'd turned away on _purpose_, like he couldn't bear to look at him any more.

He didn't like it.

"Wh…" he started, stopping as he felt his voice break and then disappear.

He tried clearing his throat, pushing past what felt like blades slicing through it.

"What's with the Sallie Struthers im… impersonation Bats?" He finally managed, his voice still a strained whisper.

A moment past, the crusader still turned from him, and then finally he looked back, glancing askew at the lunatic, frowning.

"… I wasn't sure if you were going to wake up." He answered, voice grave.

The Joker blinked, staring back a few, long seconds, before again forcing his lips up in to a smile.

"Is th… that why you're so ups-set sweetheart?" He chuckled, the sound coming as more of a wheeze.

And the vigilante just looked back at him, saying nothing.

The Joker continued smiling, despite the pain it caused.

"Well don't be…" he went on, nearly inaudibly his voice was so weak. "You know I always… I always pull through. I'm r… right here."

Suddenly his brow furrowed in thought.

"And speaking of here…"

At once he was trying to push himself up on his elbows.

But he was getting no where, barely lifting himself an inch before collapsing back down. And now he was breathing heavily, labored and stressed.

"You shouldn't move." Batman said, body tensing with concern. "You're weak."

Again the Joker laughed.

"Th… that hardly qualifies, I th-think." He struggled. "Come on, h… help a girl out, I w… wanna see where I am."

"Joker, I don't think that's a good idea. You need to…"

"I wanna see…" the lunatic cut him short. "Come on, p… pick me up."

Batman glared at him, not moving, the Joker continuing to stare back, determination in his eyes, chest rising and falling in a shallow pattern.

And finally the vigilante sighed, seeing he wasn't going to win this argument.

So he moved forward, taking hold the Joker's wrist in one hand, lifting him slightly to slide an arm beneath his back as gently he sat him up again.

Dizziness suddenly crushed down on the madman, the world around him spinning in sickening circles, and all he could do was laugh weakly.

For a long moment, he just slumped forward, struggling to regain his bearings.

And then finally, he focused, and with a concentrated effort, he managed to lift his head, it taking a moment for his eyes to adjust as all he at first saw was shadow against rock.

"Whewww, look at _that_." He started, as now he began seeing the rest of it, a long row of computer monitors, stacked and together maybe a hundred meters from them, a long table with what he could see was a wide variety of scientific instruments, situated atop, and then far across from it, at least twice as far from them, he saw the vigilante's car, parked along a well lit docking station, the lights running in a circle around it and then out, along some sort of pathway.

"Am I at _your_ place?" He asked excitedly, though still his voice came as barely more then a whisper. "Well n-now I know we b-both must ha… have died back in that laboratory, and th… this must be h-hell!" He laughed weakly, again the sound coming as more of a strained hack.

His eyes lifted to the crusader, shining with amusement.

"Oh B-Bats, it's just like I always im-magined it… you and me… d-dying in each others arms. Was it dramatic? Was there s-sappy, choir backed m-music playing o-over our death scene together?"

Batman frowned, staring hard at the Joker.

He supposed he should be grateful, that the lunatic was displaying the same sense of humor he always had, even in his precarious state.

But he wasn't.

All he could feel was a horrible depression, a terrible sinking as he watched the madman, watched how unconcerned he seemed, how oblivious to his own condition.

"You're not dead." He said gruffly. "But you will be if you keep exerting yourself like this. Lie back down."

And now he was forcing the Joker to his back again, lowering him down as though he were some fragile, porcelain doll.

Another chuckle pushed past the thin man's lips.

"S-so you actually saved me then darling?" He asked, grinning now. "How _romantic_! My knight in sh-shining armor!"

"Stop talking." The vigilante said. "You need to rest. You've taken an incredible amount of punishment."

"I know B-Bats." The Joker went on. "I was th-there."

Bruce huffed, turning away.

He could feel the sting of tears, pressing at the backs of his eyes, and with difficulty he swallowed, trying to will them back.

God, why… why couldn't this man _care_ about himself?

The Joker didn't miss the change in the larger man's demeanor, watching him from behind.

"… I knew you'd come." He said then, and now all flippancy had gone from his voice.

Batman turned to face him.

And for once the Joker wasn't smiling, staring back intently.

He didn't dare tell the vigilante of the resignation he'd felt, when near the end, he'd been sure then he _wouldn't_.

A faint smile at last tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Us freaks have to stick together, r-right?" He said.

Batman said nothing, his gaze shifting down.

A thought suddenly occurred to the madman.

"Hey, you s-said you weren't s-sure if I was going to w-wake up." He started, brow creasing in puzzlement. "Why? How long has it been si… since you b-brought me here?"

And now Bruce's eyes lifted.

"Five days." He answered. "You were in a coma. I… I thought you'd be in one for longer then you were even."

That was understating it.

It seemed a miracle the Joker had woken at _all_, given how deep the coma had been, and how damaged his body was. Never mind having woken in such a short period.

"Five days?" The Joker suddenly exclaimed, sounding taken aback. "Well that's a p… practical _lifetime_!"

The crusader only stared back.

"How dreadful then…" the lunatic continued. "Y-you forced to take care of me so ll… long." He tried waving a hand, barely managing to lift it more then a few inches from the bed. "Well never you m-mind it…" he went on. "Just give m… me a short while l-longer, and I'll be u-up and about in n-no time. And we can again res-sume the game as it w-was, before it was so r… rudely inter-rupted."

Bruce's frown deepened, his arms crossing over his chest.

And slowly his head shook.

"No Joker." He began. "You won't be going anywhere."

"Ahhh, alr-ready trying to rain on my p… parade?" The Joker grinned.

"It isn't that." Batman replied. "The injuries you sustained, and the condition I found you in, it's going to take months before you're probably even able to walk on your own."

And there it was.

For a moment, the Joker's smile actually faltered, a flash of disbelief and discomfort showing in his eyes before fast he covered it.

But not before Bruce had glimpsed it.

"Months, you say?" He started, his voice measured, and Bruce could tell the injection of indifference in the tone was forced. He laughed weakly. "Well, the s-same then as you thinking I w-wouldn't wake for some time m-more."

Bruce again shook his head, his expression grave.

"Oh come now!" The Joker's voice grew suddenly impatient. "Su-surely it can't be s… so bad that you would think my… _myself_ incapable of e-easily recovering?"

"You can see for yourself the state you're in, if you don't believe me." The vigilante replied, nodding towards the Joker's exposed torso.

The madman eyed him suspiciously a moment before at last his eyes slid away, and he had to put every ounce of his strength in to lifting his head the few inches it took to look down on himself.

He was a wreck, and though he refused the admission to form fully in his mind, it was obvious to see.

His abdomen sunk, concave, more shallow then usual even, and each bone of his ribcage showed pronouncedly through the thin and battered skin, deeply discolored with black and blue and purple contusions, reddened with broken capillaries over faded bruises, yellow and green. They covered the expanse of him, across his chest and down his stomach, not a sliver of his actual pigment showing through, and he knew to look, it ran beneath, where only a blanket covered him from the waist down.

A bandaged, soaked through with percolating blood was stretched tight across his stomach and wrapped round, to his back, and a brief shot of memory rattled through his brain, the feel of a sharp blade, slicing down through him, and then prongs, latching to the lips of the wound and holding him open, and the feel of fingers, navigating around his insides, poking and pulling.

He remembered throwing up, the pain had been so bad, almost choking on the vomit.

Everything after that became a haze.

"You're legs aren't any better." He heard the crusaders husky voice. "You're going to be bedridden for a long time, so you better get used to it."

And there was a twinge of something in the lunatic, some feeling of deflation.

He didn't let it show.

He shrugged weakly.

"I've seen myself in g-greater disrepair." He said, keeping his voice nonchalant.

That was a lie.

But the Joker was good at that.

Abruptly he remembered.

Buckets of scalding water, pouring over his head and face, and the heat of fire, burning at his scalp. And then the paralyzing agony of his teeth being pulled, ripped from his gums.

He wouldn't care… he wouldn't care normally… but the Bat… the Bat was looking right at him.

And a kind of heat spread through him, sickening discomfort.

"Let me have a mirror." He suddenly demanded.

"Joker, I don't…"

"Let me have a mirror." He repeated, cutting the crusader short, somehow keeping his tone calm, but still, for the first time, the anger was apparent in his voice.

Bruce watched him a long moment, seeing the distant and unfocused gaze of the lunatic's eyes as they stared ahead of him, seemingly at nothing.

The Joker was vain.

Batman knew that.

Though what the nature of that vanity was, he wasn't anymore sure, not since he'd seen the way… the way he failed to at all respond when…

He lowered his gaze, trying to shake the thoughts from his head.

Either way, he was certain the Joker wouldn't be very happy to see his own reflection now.

"Batman…" his attention was drawn back up when he heard the madman address him.

"Give me a mirror." And his voice was entirely serious.

Bruce regarded him only a moment longer, knowing it was useless, trying to shield him from it.

And so without a word, he moved to the same table he'd retrieved the water from, taking up a small hand mirror, handing it to the Joker.

He braced himself, his entire frame tensing as the lunatic brought it to his face.

Moments past in absolute silence, the air seeming to grow thick as he waited, watching…

The Joker stared at himself, unmoving, expression blank, flat…

He said nothing.

A moment more.

And then he laughed.


	13. Chapter 13

**New chapter guys! Again, really sorry for the late update. As usual, things have just been getting in the way lately. But don't worry, I'm still writing this. Thanks to everyone who left feedback on the last chapter! Once more, you're more appreciate then you know, and I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to all of you yet. I'm trying, lol. As usual, I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter here as well, and thanks so much to everyone for just reading too. Alright, enough blabbing. Hope you enjoy!**

**Chapter 13:**

It was quickly his laughter turned to uncontrolled coughing, his body convulsing violently, racked by vicious tremors and pronounced gasps as his lungs struggled for air.

Sporadically he would seem to force the sound in to broken giggles, even as his face contorted in obvious pain, and the laughter again cut to strangled hacks.

Once more Bruce had moved to him, lifting him to a sitting position, bending him forward to try and help him clear his lungs.

And for several minutes, the coughing continued, interspersed with his suffering mirth.

"Calm down. Just _calm down_!" Bruce pleaded desperately, panic clutching his insides as he glimpsed red, blood, spraying past and hanging, dripping slow off the Joker's lip, forced up from the fury of the contractions in his throat.

He'd been expecting rage, disbelief, disturbance of some kind, maybe even dejection.

He didn't know why.

He didn't know why he'd been expecting any kind of _normal _reaction from this man.

But still, it pained the vigilante so irreparably, to see him react _this _way.

To see the madman laugh at his own, ruined state.

Oh God, he was so sick…

It would be several minutes more before the Joker finally gave up his amusement, and several minutes after that before his body recovered from the effort, and finally, finally, the coughing stopped, and he only hung forward, limp and trembling in Bruce's arms.

A long, few moments until the madman gathered the strength to again speak, and when he did, it was with great struggle, his breath coming shallow and broken, chest rising and falling in rapid bursts as it fought for greater oxygen.

"M-my God…" he began at last, head hanging low, shaking. "I… heehee… I'm a-actually _ugly_! Hahaha..."

He went on laughing, though weakly now, without the initial burst of strength from before.

More blood drizzled from his lip, pooling together, a tiny puddle on the white blanket covering his legs.

"Stop laughing." Batman ordered, voice uncompromising.

"I, heeheehee, I c-can't…" the Joker replied just barely. "Y-you know that's li… like asking a fish to stop s-swimming doll-face, hahaha… just n-not natural…"

"You're going to kill yourself."

"And since when have you ever _cared_?" The lunatic's laughter cut abruptly, voice suddenly edged hard, and he pinned his gaze on Batman, unyielding intensity.

The Joker's gaze.

Famous for the impossibility of ever holding it in return.

But Batman could.

Batman always could. Even when it so frightened him.

Had he ever been able to admit that?

That looking in to the Joker's eyes scared him?

And _why_?

_Why_ did it scare him?

Because in it, he saw reflected back all of the terrible hopelessness of the world… of life…

Of everything he'd ever done or would do, everything he'd ever worked to accomplish.

The Joker… The Joker…

He had been his one, constant companion through it all. Hadn't he?

He'd been the only one to match his obsession, to do this _with_ him, every night, out there on the streets.

The only one who'd ever _understood_.

Jesus, was he really thinking these thoughts?

Was he realizing this now?

The Joker _understood_, and still he insisted this was all some game, some _joke_.

Still he served to remind Batman of the futility of his own actions.

He saw it when he looked in to the madman's eyes.

And it scared him, because the Joker _understood_.

What it was he wanted.

What it was he _needed_.

All that he fought against.

And still… _still_ damn it, he told him it was useless, it was worthless, it was nothing.

And he was the only one, the Joker was the _only _one who could ever, _ever _make him believe it. Because he understood, because he _knew_, like Batman knew, what it was around them, what it was they'd been thrown so unwillingly _in to_.

All of them.

The Joker… The Joker…

The Joker was the only one who'd ever scared him.

Because the Joker was the only one who'd ever made him feel the weight of _emptiness_.

How devoid of purpose this all really was.

Just through his _being_, just through his _existence_, he had always represented the inevitability of destruction.

The unavoidable eventuality of pain and sorrow and death.

How everything became nothing.

And no amount of planning, no amount of action or reaction or desire… no amount of _hope _could ever, _ever _change that.

And the Joker scared him, because deep down, Bruce had always known he was _right_, and the lunatic had never let him forget it, he'd never let him pretend, always there to show Batman, always there to make him see the _truth_, using _himself _as example.

_Abandoning _himself to chaos, to the loss of all control, embracing it, using it, _becoming_ it.

All to show Batman… all to show him how in the end, everything met itself with the same fate.

No escape…

And to not care, to live free from the burden of fear, of losing what would regardless be taken from you no matter your steps, no matter your choices, that was the only way to live at all. The only way to be. Really _be_.

And so the Joker let himself go, in to situations where death was all but assured, pain only guaranteed. Willingly, excitedly, _joyfully_. Because, he would tell Batman, in the end, it mattered nothing.

He was going to die, and so was everyone else. And whether that was now, or in fifty years, whether it was in pain or in peace, it always, always, turned out the same.

And it would continue on, forever and ever.

Because that was just the way things were.

The Joker scared Batman.

Because it was he alone the Joker considered enough to try and save from the pain of their fate.

The Joker had only been trying to _save_ him.

And Christ, it was like only _now_ he could realize it.

That everything the Joker had ever made him suffer had been the lunatic's attempt to give him freedom, as _he_ had freedom.

But his mind perhaps too sick to realize he didn't want it.

Batman didn't _want _freedom if that's what freedom meant.

He'd always cared.

He always had.

It was only now, only seeing the Joker tortured, brought so close to death at the hands of others, did he seem able to _admit_ that.

The Joker was still looking at him, and it was slowly his expression changed, anger to disgust.

His lip curled and his hands came up, pushing weakly, uselessly against Batman's thick arms.

He had no strength even to_ struggle_.

No strength even to sit up on his own.

And that same discomfort took hold again, unfamiliar, unwanted.

"Oh, it's a u-useless thing anyway…" he said, voice deflated, still with his hands on the vigilante's arm. He turned his face away. The first to break his gaze. "your caring… That's always been your _problem_. But don't feel sorry for me Bat. It serves you n-nothing. You'll only wonder why you… why you did when I've gotten back on my f-feet."

"It'll be a while before then Joker, like I said." Batman responded.

The madman only ignored him.

"Let me back down." He answered, wiping his hand lazily across his mouth, smearing the blood, messily across the top of his lip.

Batman's mouth pulled in to a frown at the sight, but he did as he was asked, lowering the Joker on to his back again.

"It should only be a fe-few days." The lunatic continued. "You'll have your fun, ch-chasing me along rooftops again before l-long."

The crusader said nothing, staring intently.

It was like the madman couldn't accept the situation, couldn't believe it.

Bizarre, for his always accepting all else.

Bruce's thoughts went back to the tape, to the footage he'd forced himself to watch, the Joker being beaten and raped and reduced, and the absolute apathy in his eyes, the absolute detachment.

Like he felt nothing at all.

It wasn't there now.

There was something.

Though what it was, the vigilante couldn't say.

Not fear, not anger or indignation, or even sadness.

Certainly not embarrassment.

Bruce didn't know what it was there.

But his eyes weren't empty like they'd been in that footage.

And it was like some wave crashing down on him.

Was it because of _him_? Was it because he was there, the Joker could no longer disassociate from his position?

Did the Joker at all care what _he _thought?

It seemed absurd.

The Joker had never been deterred by anything, least of all the prospect of upsetting him. He seemed in fact to live for it.

But maybe it was the nature of it.

What was now _causing_ the crusader to be so.

The lunatic thought it ridiculous, how riled Batman would become over his hurting people.

And, Bruce wondered, maybe he thought it only more so, how riled he was now over the Joker having the same done to him.

Almost like… disappointment.

Batman having failed, again, to learn his lesson.

The Joker's mind was addled by enough sickness to perceive the situation through such a filter.

It only made Bruce want to help him more.

"You know…" he was broken from his thoughts by the Joker's strained voice. He wheezed out a chuckle. "I've always loved your steely r-resolve. Your _lack_ of emotion covering your _heartwarming_ concern. But I had the most h-horrible dream. You were kneeling be… beside me, _crying_ your eyes out." Again he laughed. "Im-magine that? Absurd, I know, given how terribly you attempt to m-make yourself appear a blank s…slate."

Mortification gripped Bruce's insides, and so fast it came, so hard, he could do nothing to hide it from his face, and the Joker saw it in an instant, as he saw _everything_.

"Oh, don't _tell_ me!" He shot, eyes widening. "You weren't _really_?"

Again, Bruce was silent, and heat burned across his cheeks, his frame tensing.

How the _hell_ had the Joker _known_?

Christ, leave it to the madman, to catch him in his exposure, even when it should seem impossible.

"My _God_ Batman! Have you truly lost yourself?" The Joker went on, looking at him with narrowed eyes. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

No answer came, and so the lunatic began to laugh, low and mean.

"How _darling _you are. So much like the little boy you thought you'd left _behind_. So terrified of losing the ones you _love_."

There was mocking in his voice, and in his eyes the same hardness Batman had always known, so seemingly out of place within the Joker's broken form.

Bruce knew what he was doing. Knew that he was purposefully trying to make him angry, to make him lash out even.

Like some desperate attempt to shift back to the previous dynamic between them.

That it was all this was.

He heard the words of Dr. Finius, echoing through his brain, telling him… telling him he'd tried gleaning his identity from the Joker, tried forcing him to tell him.

The Joker knew who he was.

He'd known for a long time.

Something Bruce himself had only just figured out a year earlier.

He'd been stricken with worry then, concerned the Joker would reveal it to another party.

But he'd eventually thought better of it.

By the time he'd realized it, the Joker had already been aware for at least the last ten years, probably longer, and never in that time had he told another soul.

The Joker didn't care.

He didn't give a damn who Batman was outside the costume.

Bruce doubted he even acknowledged there _being_ a man outside it.

It had made his stomach churn, when Finius had said he'd made the Joker pay for refusing to tell him, made it churn even still as he thought of what horrors he must have subjected the Joker to for it.

And the sensation was strange, for how it contrasted with his sudden anger towards the madman.

The Joker was better at this then anyone.

At evoking whatever emotion he aimed to.

It was this, _this _Bruce found uncomfortable about the Joker knowing.

That he would use that knowledge to hurt him, as he just had.

And he had to exert all his will then _not _to do as the Joker wanted, not to lash out or lose his temper.

To respond with the rationality of understanding _why_ the Joker had just said that.

He exhaled slowly, not allowing his body to tense, not allowing the lines of stress to show along the corners of his mouth.

"You're going to be here a long time Joker, whether you like it or not. Your condition is too unstable, and you've been rendered too vulnerable for me to allow you in to a public hospital. If someone were to try and harm you, there would be nothing _you_ could do to stop them." He paused, letting that sink in a moment. "Again, I suggest you get used to it. Your acting surly will only make the process more painstaking for _you_, not me. I couldn't care less whether you're happy with the situation or not. Now just lye down, try to get some rest. You're going to need it. And try not to jostle the IV. You're still experiencing dehydration. Your body needs all the help it can get right now."

The Joker's expression could only be described as livid.

"Y… you aren't seriously suggesting I simply _lie_ here? What, while you gallivant about town? Without me?"

"I'll stay a few more hours." Bruce answered. "But I've fallen behind on my duties out there, so I can't stay the whole night. Right now I have work to do. _Do as I say_, just try and fall back asleep. If you need anything…"

He turned, reaching for and picking up a bell he had set on the nearby table.

"Just ring this and I'll be here to help you. After that, Alfred will be taking over my duties until I return from parole."

"_Alfred_?" The Joker asked, incredulous. "You can't mean that soppy old man you have working for you? I refuse to let some _decrepit creature_ tend to me."

"You'll treat him with respect or you'll see just how miserable I can make this for you." Batman shot, no humor in his voice. "If you even _think_ about harming him in any way, you _will_ be sorry. I can guarantee it. Not that you'd have much chance of harming anyone but yourself in your current condition."

And there he saw it, again that flicker of anger, flashing bright in the madman's eyes.

But as quickly as it came, it went, and suddenly a smile slid in to place across his lips, and he gave a weak shrug.

"As you desire, dear _Sir_." He said, voice full with condensation. "But let me inquire. _This_…" and suddenly he gestured at his own face, waving a floppy hand about. "this is most unfortunate. Surely, if I'm to be _your_ prisoner now…"

"You aren't my prisoner. I'm simply taking care of you until you're well enough to return to Arkham." Batman cut him short.

"Whatever. You can play the semantics game all you please." The Joker was fast to answer. "The point is, if you _require_ my cooperation, I require in return a few favors."

Batman frowned, already not liking the sound of this.

"What?" He asked, voice flat.

"Oh, indeed, I am a _vain_ creature Batman. But you already know that. Who could blame me, when I was given such a beautiful visage."

He grinned.

Batman didn't react.

The madman sighed.

"It's disconcerting honey bunch, you seeing me like this." He went on, admitting to it flat out. "I mean, you have to concede, for a _performer_ such as myself, a lovely appearance is rather an _essential_ quality. I can't give my best when I don't look the _part_."

"What do you _want _Joker?" Batman said, crossing his arms across his chest, losing his patience.

The Joker continued smiling.

"Oh, I thought you'd _never_ ask." He replied. "Now's the time sweetcheeks, to use that money of yours for a _good cause_. I need this _fixed_." Again he gestured to his face. "Whatever it is. Plastic surgery, dental implants, _hair plugs_…" he laughed weakly.

Batman shook his head.

"Your hair will grow back, and your face isn't damaged beyond severe swelling and bruising, and some minor lacerations. Only your nose is broken, somehow. The rest will heal on its own."

"Oh, I could have _sworn _they broke my right orbital bone." The Joker mused, still smiling. "Of course, everything went _numb_ after a time, so I admit, it was hard to tell."

It was making Bruce intensely uneasy, how flippantly the madman continued to act, to regard all of this.

"Your teeth, Alfred will take care of."

"_Him_ again?" The Joker sighed. "Is he even _qualified_?"

"Yes."

The Joker glared at him a moment longer before finally shrugging, rolling his eyes away.

And for an equally long moment, Bruce regarded him back.

"Is there anything else?" He at last questioned.

"Nope." The Joker said quickly, his eyes still fixed away.

"I'll be by the computers." Batman continued.

Again the Joker shrugged.

And when it became obvious the lunatic would say nothing more, the vigilante finally turned, walking away.

/

This was absurd.

This was _totally_ absurd.

The Joker glanced askance at Batman across the vast space of the cave, his back to him, working, apparently engrossed in… whatever the hell he _worked on_.

He hadn't turned back around for what must have been the last forty minutes, at least.

If Batman thought… if he _thought_ he was going to be able to keep him here and _ignore _him, then he thought _wrong_.

Forget this.

He was leaving.

If he'd known Batman would turn in to a God damned _care bear_ because of all this, he'd have preferred for him not to have come at all.

And if he thought he wasn't going to be able to walk out of here either, then again, he was soon to find out how mistaken he really was.

All this took was effort.

He'd pulled himself out of only the most grim of circumstances without help. Explosions and gunfire, bullet and knife wounds, arteries _severed_.

He'd been dumped in to the middle of the _ocean_ for Christ's sake, with the weight of a million tons of water, pounding down on his head, keeping him from the surface, and _still_, he'd managed to come out of it.

Certainly, he wouldn't need help _now_.

He was going to leave, find a dentist, _persuade_ him to put new teeth in his mouth, and as Batman had so kindly informed, the rest would simply do fine on its own.

He placed his hands, palms down on the bed, staying there for some seconds, waiting.

He could feel the lethargy, heavy in his limbs, sensing his body wanting to fail at the effort.

But he wouldn't _let it_.

And so with focus, he tried, struggling mightily to push himself up, to _sit_ up.

His arms shook, violently, uncontrollably, and it was nearly he collapsed back down.

But no, he was _going_ to do this.

And he did, breathing labored, chest rising and falling rapidly, shallowly.

He could feel the sweat, trickling slow down from his hair line, over his temple, and again his eyes slid to Batman, still with his back to him.

His tongue ran over his lips, dried and cracked. He could taste copper, blood.

And he swallowed it down, ignoring the feeling like razors in his throat.

A few moments longer, he kept his eyes on the crusader, his hunched form inputting something along some kind of electronic board.

And finally his gaze slipped away, down.

It looked like maybe three feet from the bed to the floor.

His legs would reach that easily, if he could just swing them over the edge.

It only was a matter of standing then.

Easy.

His eyes kept on the spot, staring at it a few seconds more.

He might as well just do it, he thought.

And so without further delay, he again made the effort, his fingers digging hard in to the beds sheets, and a low grunt pushed past his lips this time as he strained hard to swivel his hips around, his legs finally sliding off the edge, falling limp over the side. The action nearly pulled his whole body off with the momentum, his fingers having to dig harder, his arms locking at the elbows to keep himself upright.

He huffed, exhaling shakily as his eyes lifted back to Batman. And still he hadn't moved.

The Joker frowned.

He hadn't really thought this through, he suddenly realized.

Like, for instance, he didn't know where the _exit_ was.

But jeez, it was a _cave_. It shouldn't be _that_ hard to find, right?

He reached over, pulling the blanket from his legs, tossing it aside, having to do it again to get it all the way off.

He looked down at himself, all he was wearing a pair of white underwear.

He was going to need to get some clothes. Simple enough. He was pretty sure he had some suits where last he was staying.

He just had to remember where that was.

His feet dangled just a few inches from the floor. The nails had barely begun growing in again, the same for his fingers, some still with bandages.

Moving his hands to the mattress edge, he curled his fingers over it, and with another rough grunt, he slid himself forward, until he sat just at the lip, his toes touching the ground.

He knew the moment he shifted his weight from the bed, his legs would fail him.

He just hadn't expected the fall to be quite so fast.

Like suddenly the ground rushing up to meet him.

/

A loud crash drew his attention, turning him quick in his seat, his eyes immediately moving across the space, to from where the sound had come. Resting on where he'd left the Joker.

And then quickly down when he saw the bed empty, and splayed out beneath it, on the floor, was the madman, crumpled on to his face and stomach.

More quickly still, the vigilante was up out of the chair, moving to him.

The Joker had already begun trying to push himself back up, struggling visibly, limbs trembling.

"Joker!" Batman started as he drew nearer, alarm in his voice.

And a low chuckle rose up from the lunatic's throat as he collapsed back to his face.

The IV stand had been knocked over, the drip torn from the crook of the Joker's arm, water dripping steady from the needle, on to the ground.

Once more, he began trying to push himself up, managing now to get to his hands and knees, just as Bruce came upon him.

And still his arms shook terribly.

"Joker, what happened?" The crusader asked, urgent.

He continued to laugh, the sound soft but apparent, causing the rest of him to shutter.

And slowly his eyes lifted to Batman, the detective able to see from the strain across his features, the deep set lines, that it was taking every ounce of the madman's strength, just to hold that position.

"O-ho… ho, ho…" the Joker giggled. "e… entirely purposeful darling, I assure you." He began, voice unsteady as he looked. "Even the b… best of us take pratfalls from t… time to time."

More laughter.

But gradually, it tapered out, replaced by labored breaths and sharp gasps as he struggled for air, sporadic coughs ripping his frame harder.

Batman frowned, knowing precisely what had happened, guilt suddenly raking him for having let his work distract him so long.

He didn't hesitate a moment more, moving for him.

"Here, let me help you…" He started, reaching out.

But the moment his hand had touched the Joker's arm, ready to wrap round it, his other beginning to reach over across his back, to hold him round the chest, the reaction was sudden, and unexpected.

All mirth seemed instantly to drain from the lunatic, lifting one hand from the ground, his fingers grasping briefly over Batman's own. And with an effort so weak, it barely registered, he pushed Bruce away, his hand needing to come quickly down again as he started to lose his balance.

"Don't _touch _me!" He hissed, voice filled with unhidden anger.

And for a moment, he was silent, frame trembling more viciously now.

"… I can do it _myself_!" He finished after some seconds, clearly struggling to catch his breath.

Bruce retracted, stepping backward.

His brow furrowed heavily.

It was obvious the Joker _couldn't_.

He was barely managing to stay as he was.

And as if on cue, the madman's strength betrayed him totally, and once more, he collapsed down to his face and stomach.

"Joker, let me help you." Batman again tried, reaching out.

"No!" The Joker spat. "Stay _away _Batman. I don't _need _your help."

"You do…"

"I _don't_."

The Joker fought to push himself up, getting only as far as his elbow.

Still he fixed the crusader with a hard gaze.

"I don't need you. I didn't need you to _help me_ Batman. I didn't need you to come to my _rescue_."

Once more, Bruce's hands fell to his side.

His head shook.

"You would have died…" he began quietly.

"And better _for it_!" The Joker fumed. "Better then _this_. Then your contemptible _worry_. You won't treat me like one of your loathsome _innocents_, _beseeching_ your protection. I don't _want _it. Better to have left me there to _die_ then for you to treat me this way. _You_, of all of them. _You _should know better."

For a moment, Bruce said nothing, sinking horror dropping down through his stomach at the Joker's words.

Where had this been? Where had this anger been when he was being tortured?

This man… this man never made any damn _sense_.

"… Don't say that." He began finally. "That isn't true."

"Isn't it?" The Joker shot back quickly. "Oh, Batman, do you not _see_? Your view of me has _changed_."

And for the briefest of instances, there Bruce saw it, a flash of pain, twisting the lines of the madman's features.

"_Why_?" The lunatic went on. "You've seen me before in great disrepair, and never did you let it interfere with your relation to me. What's _causing_ you now to see me with pity?"

"… I don't…"

"You're lying." The Joker cut him short. "I see it in your eyes, even now as I speak to you. You're feeling _sorry_ for me. I told you _don't_. If you see me this way, how do you expect for us to continue?"

Bruce shook his head.

"… I don't know what you mean."

A second longer, the Joker kept his eyes on the larger man, and then suddenly, they slid to the floor, and slowly his head shook in return.

"Oh damn it Bat, you should have left me to die." He mumbled, voice barely audible. "Christ, if I'd known… I never would have wished for you to come…"

A moment more and his eyes again lifted to the crusader.

"Why do you _look _at me that way?"

Bruce's mouth pulled down more severely at its corners, and now it was his own gaze which fixed to the ground.

Damn the Joker's ability to see.

He couldn't tell him.

Not now.

If the madman knew what he'd seen, that he'd watched him as he was beaten and raped by a group of low life thugs… it would only cause him to fall in to greater upset. And already he could tell it was going to be near impossible to calm the Joker down from this.

He couldn't explain to him the reason for why now… _now _he felt pity towards him… that it was seeing the Joker's indifference towards himself which had finally revealed to the crusader just how helpless and vulnerable he was. How seeing what before he'd only known as an unbeatable strength could in fact be used to undo the madman completely, to _destroy_ him.

He'd seen it was only a matter of manipulation, using the Joker's own unwillingness to bend as the very thing to break him with.

He couldn't tell him that now, because damn it if the Joker wasn't _right_, if it _hadn't _changed the way he now saw him.

No longer an unstoppable force. But a man. A man, in all his defiance, ultimately controlled by his own sickness.

The Joker could see the change in his perception.

But he couldn't tell him why. Not now. Not without making this situation worse.

But then, his silence seemed to do that for him.

The Joker glanced away.

"Kill me." He muttered.

"What?" Batman asked.

"Kill me." The lunatic repeated, voice flat. "This useless thing I've become to you. You have to kill me. I'll let you. I won't even struggle."

God, the vigilante had never heard the Joker sound like this.

Like he was actually _depressed_, the anger seeped from his voice now completely.

"Joker, you know I won't do that." He started.

And the Joker again lifted his head, looking at him, his lips pulling in to a dull smile.

"Well, I suppose it hurt nothing to ask." He answered, a weak chuckle escaping out his throat.

But the amusement was false, and quickly any act of it went from his features as he turned from the crusader once more, lowering himself from his elbows, back down.

And he seemed actually to curl in on himself, hiding his face away, pressing it in to his shoulder.

"Leave me alone Bat." He said, voice so soft, Bruce barely caught what he'd said.

"Joker, let me help you. You can't stay on the floor like th…"

He stopped, watching as the lunatic only shook his head in response, and his arms came down, tight over his head.

Like some little boy.

Oh God, the Joker was like some little boy.

And it only made Bruce want to retch, thinking again of what had been done to him.

His eyes cast to the floor.

He would wait then.

And leave him alone for now.

If that was what the Joker wanted.

He would let him lye there on the floor.

Because he knew, eventually, the madman would have to ask for his help.

And so he would just wait.

Because maybe it was better, to let the Joker have the decision to ask.

To at least give him that one dignity, even if, ultimately, it rang empty.

Maybe the illusion of choice here was better then the harsh truth of there being none.

And even if the Joker knew that anyway.

Sometimes, just the attempt to make it better meant more then whether or not you really did.


	14. Chapter 14

**Hey guys! New chapter! Really sorry for the long delay! I hope you guys are still interested. I just want to give a huge thank you again to my readers, and to everyone who reviewed last chapter. It means the world to me that you think enough of my story to tell me what you think. I'm sorry I haven't been able to get back to you lately. I've just been a bit busy. But I promise starting now, I'll be responding to all future reviews.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Here we go!**

**Chapter 14:**

Two hours later, and the Joker hadn't moved from the spot, had barely shifted at all, or made any sound, only continuing to lye there, prone, with his face turned inward, hidden away.

Bruce kept continually looking up at him, staring at him for long minutes before again trying to work.

But work was impossible then, and he was only fooling himself in trying to focus on it.

The Joker shouldn't be lying on the floor like that. Not in his current condition.

He'd thought, from the discomfort alone, the madman would have given up on his stubborn refusal for help within the first five minutes. But there he went again, _assuming _things about the Joker, when he knew better then anyone never to do that.

He'd been watching the steady but shallow rise and fall of the lunatic's breathing, eyes intent on it, watching _for_ it.

He had this sickening fear that the Joker would suddenly just… stop. That he'd stop breathing.

Any seemingly prolonged pause between the rise and fall nearly had Batman up out of his chair again and across the space.

But then he would spot it the second following, and relax back down.

He sighed, dragging his eyes from the lunatic once more, this time resting his gaze on the time, flashing in the lower right hand corner of one of many computer monitors.

He had to go.

He should really have left on patrol half an hour ago. But the Joker just _lying_ there, doing nothing, saying nothing…

Bruce frowned, finally pushing himself to his feet, stepping quickly across the cave to the crumpled form on the ground.

He stopped just feet away, looking down at the Joker, unconscious lines of worry etching their way across his face.

Still the madman didn't move, didn't even acknowledge Batman's presence there.

The vigilante thought for a moment he might be asleep, but then he saw the subtle shift, the Joker turning his head just barely more inward against himself.

It was unnerving… how much he resembled a child.

"… Joker." Bruce at last spoke after nearly a minute.

The Joker said nothing.

"Joker, I have to go." He said.

A long moment of silence.

"… Then go." He finally heard the lunatic's frail and trembling voice, barely audible.

Bruce frowned.

"You can't stay there. You can't stay on the floor like that."

"… Sure I can." The Joker replied. "I can do w-whatever I please."

"Joker…" Batman started, voice more firm. "no, you can't. If you refuse to let me help you, then I'll just tell Alfred to pick you up and put you on the bed."

This drew weak laughter from the lunatic.

"But Batsy, isn't he t-this side of nine hundred years old? I doubt he has the s-strength to lift me bodily like _you_."

His voice was muffled and soft, the crusader having to strain just to hear it.

"You've lost about close to _fifty_ pounds Joker." He answered. "Do you realize? You weigh a hundred and forty pounds. You were already underweight. With your height, that's heading in to _very_ dangerous territory."

And again the Joker laughed.

"Then I should be r-right at home." He replied.

Batman felt himself losing his patience.

He didn't know how the clown managed it, even with him lying half dead on the floor, too weak to lift himself even to his hands and knees.

"Fine then." He said flatly. "I'll have Alfred put you to bed."

And he began to turn, back towards the computers to inform the butler of the situation.

"… Wait."

He was halted by the Joker's voice.

And he turned back to face him, waiting.

For a long, few seconds, the Joker continued in his silence, unmoving.

Bruce had hoped his wording would produce some result.

The Joker, though dangerously adept at it, wasn't the only one who could play games of manipulation.

"… Pick me up."

Bruce heard him speak, but the voice was too soft to make out the words.

"Say again?" He asked.

The Joker felt his frame tense in agitation, and again, that discomfort, burning heat against his skin.

He couldn't believe this.

He couldn't believe he was reduced to this in front of the only person who even _mattered_.

But he wouldn't allow some old man to touch him now. To handle him like some… _child_.

"… Pick. Me. Up." He repeated, voice grudging.

Batman had to work to repress the smile which threatened at the corners of his lips.

It was so rare, after all, when he verbally outmaneuvered the Joker.

No doubt, it had to do with the madman's compromised condition. He doubted the Joker's brain was operating to full capacity, given the fact he was beat all to hell and currently doped up on morphine.

He'd have spotted the trick in an instant otherwise, the crusader was sure.

Still, it gave Bruce some sense of satisfaction, turning the tables on the Joker, beating him at his own game.

It was petty to feel that way, Batman knew. Especially now. When the lunatic was in such dire straits. But if the clown insisted on his belligerent behavior, the vigilante reasoned, he simply was asking for it.

Without a word, he moved forward, kneeling down beside the smaller man, being careful as possible as he began handling his fragile body.

"Come on." He spoke quietly, laying his arm across the Joker's back, his other finding its way beneath the madman's chest, lifting him gently up and leaning him back, supporting his light weight easily. Once he had him balanced, Bruce moved the limb across his front to below, behind the bend in his knees, and in one, easy motion, he stood with him, lifting the Joker off the ground as though he weighed nothing at all.

The clown gave no resistance, no protest, hanging limp and silent in Batman's arms, quiet still as the detective moved him towards the cot, lying him back down across it, careful to lay his head fully on the pillow.

The entire time, the Joker kept his eyes away, cast off to the side, or down, his expression otherwise stoic.

It was bizarre, seeing him so quiet, so… lifeless.

The lunatic's energy was almost always at a fever pitch, uncontainable in its intensity.

There was none of that now.

He looked as a rag doll, listless, and broken.

The unease it caused in Bruce, seeing his great nemesis this way, was a sensation itself unfamiliar.

He found himself unable to look for long at the Joker's face either, instead focusing on pulling the tossed away blanket back over the madman's ravaged form, across his legs and up to his waist.

Quietly then, he picked the fallen IV up from the floor, pulling out a drawer from the nearby medical drawer, retrieving a new needle and replacing it on the drip.

It took only seconds to go through the motions of inserting it back in to the crook of the Joker's arm, cleaning the area with an alcohol wipe, finding the vein and taping the needle back down with a patch of gauze.

The entire time, the Joker said nothing, remaining just as still.

When he'd finished, Bruce finally forced himself to look back to the clown's face, turned towards him on its side, but his eyes staring past, ahead at nothing.

For a long moment, the vigilante was himself quiet, just watching him.

He knew the Joker must have been aware of his doing so, but he didn't react to it, made no acknowledgment of it.

It was like the madman's earlier flippancy had all been a charade, an act, trying to convince Batman, and maybe even himself of the inconsequence of what had happened to him, slipped away now with the realization that, even if he wanted to convey emotional apathy, the physical results of what he'd been subjected to weren't so easily masked.

And as his discomfort deepened with the Joker's behavior, he realized it might actually be a relief, to hear him laugh, to show signs of his usual, gleeful state.

That wasn't ever something he thought he'd hope for.

But then, this entire situation was one he'd never considered a possibility.

"You're alright now?" He at last asked.

The Joker remained unresponsive a long moment, staring ahead still, past the crusader.

"… I've never been _all right_." He spoke suddenly, flatly, no humor in his voice. And at once his eyes moved up to the detective. "But you already _know _that."

Batman looked back at him, lips pulled in to a vague frown.

Even that seemed strange, hearing the Joker speak of himself as unwell.

It had always been one of the few things to annoy him, when people would refer to him as crazy.

He'd always been so adamant of his own sanity, and what he thought was everyone else's madness.

A moment more past, and Bruce at last lowered his eyes down.

"If there's nothing else…" he began. "then I'll be going. Alfred should be down in a few minutes to take care of things."

The Joker's eyes slid away, saying nothing.

Batman's frown deepened.

"I should only be gone five hours or so."

Still, the Joker said nothing.

For nearly a minute longer, the vigilante just stood there, looking down at the madman, a kind of frustration working its way up through him.

Why did it feel like he was doing everything wrong?

He sighed.

"Treat Alfred _well _Joker." He warned. "If I hear anything about you in _any way_ threatening him, I promise, I'll go out of my way to make this harder for you."

To that, the Joker also failed to respond, save for the barely perceptible lines forming round the corners of his mouth, a barely visible frown.

"Understood?" Batman pressed.

"Go away Batman." The madman said suddenly. "You don't need to w… worry. You said it yourself, yes? My current condition renders me useless. I'll be no threat to your _man-servant_."

"… I never said you were useless." Batman answered.

"But I am." The Joker countered back. "Now go. Your presence is tiresome to me."

And he didn't know why, only something about the Joker's words then bothered him. Left him feeling… empty.

But he wouldn't argue with the lunatic anymore.

For the Joker's own sake, he needed to rest.

And so he turned without saying another word, walking away.

The Joker's eyes fixed on him as he went, staying there only a moment, before his lids slid shut, and he curled his hands up over his head, blocking the world around him from view.

/

Alfred stood at the base of the stairs, still, looking out across the space towards the bed, and the man lying motionless atop it.

He wasn't beyond admitting he felt a sense of apprehension.

Though he knew, logically, the Joker's current condition left him more or less harmless, the thought of _interacting_ with the lunatic left him more then a little uneasy.

Bruce had informed him a few hours previous that their "guest" had awoken from his coma, and that, upon realizing his position, had been left in rather a _surly_ mood.

Wonderful news, Alfred had thought. Just his sort of luck.

Bruce had been very specific in his instructions of how to _deal_ with the Joker, as he'd put it.

Under no circumstances, Bruce had emphasized, was Alfred to tell him anything about himself. Nothing personal. Or even professional.

"_The Joker's most dangerous weapon is his mind Alfred_." He'd said seriously. "_If you give him any information about yourself, he _will_ use it against you. He'll use it to hurt you. So tell him _nothing_. Keep conversation with him to an absolute minimum_."

Simple enough, Alfred had reasoned.

He had no real desire to speak at all with the madman.

"_He'll draw you in Alfred_." Bruce had further explained when the butler had indicated he understood. "_He's a master of manipulation. He knows better then anyone how to get you talking. So _be careful."

And again Alfred had assured him he understood.

Still, the younger man's words had left him with a mild bit of hesitation.

He would be have to be mindful of how he went about this.

Standing there a few, long seconds more, and he finally resolved just to get it over with.

The Joker's condition was, at best, precarious, and left alone, it wasn't at all unlikely some vital part of him might begin to fail.

He needed to be kept an eye on.

So he began across the space, carrying with him a silver trey, sat atop it a bowl of tomato soup and a bottle of water, with a straw.

As he drew nearer, the Joker failed to stir, and for a moment, Alfred had the hope the madman might be asleep.

Closer still though, and he saw the Joker's eyes were open, staring blankly above himself, at the cavernous, black ceiling.

It caused only a barely perceptible stutter in Alfred's step before he continued forward the rest of the way, finally coming to a stop just feet from the bed.

He looked down at the Joker, the pale white man not returning the gaze.

A moment's more hesitation, and then Alfred cleared his throat.

"Good evening." He began shortly, his even tone betraying none of his nervousness. "I've brought you dinner."

The Joker didn't respond, didn't move.

Alfred's eyes lowered only a moment, thinking what next to say, before he again brought them back to the lunatic.

"I've been informed you're feeling rather unwell," he tried again. "perhaps too weak at the moment to efficiently feed yourself. And so I've been instructed to assist you."

Still, the Joker was silent.

He wasn't even blinking, and the butler felt his nerves worsen.

But Bruce was depending on him.

He would be remiss in letting his apprehension get the better of him.

There was a chair, situated by the beds side, the one Bruce had been using these past, several days, keeping watch over the madman.

Alfred used it now, lowering himself in to the seat, keeping his eyes focused intently on the Joker. He rested the trey upon his own lap, gaze lowering to the bowl of soup, hand coming up to grasp the spoon's handle.

Lifting it with the soup, he looked back up, smiling tightly and leaning just slightly closer.

"I would advice you to eat slowly." He began, bringing the spoon forward.

"And I would advice for you to fuck off." The Joker responded suddenly, quickly.

Alfred wasn't able to keep the surprise from his face, at once leaning back, spoon lowering back to the bowl.

And now the Joker shifted, turning his head, staring at the older man with cold, hard eyes.

"I don't want your help. I do… don't want your _food_." He continued, and Alfred couldn't help noticing how weak his voice was, soft and with a heavy rasp, capeleries in his right eye broken, turning the white of it red. "I wish, in f-fact, for you to keep your hands entirely to yourself, for you to ref… refrain from treating me as some hapless v-victim. You should be grateful o… old man, for the warning I give, as I am anything _but_. Most aren't given the pr… privelige."

Alfred stared back at him a long moment, silent, expression flat.

And the Joker stared back with equal stoicism, before finally looking away.

"If Batman wants to _tend_ my w-wounds, he can do it _himself_."

Alfred regarded him a moment longer, before finally, his lips pursed, and her looked back down.

"Yes, well… I'm afraid I'll be required to, at points, put my hands on you Sir." He glanced back up, seeing the Joker turn to him again, pinning him with narrowed eyes. "To change your bandages, administer pain medication, check to make certain your overall condition is holding steady. So, unfortunately, I can make no guarantee or promise as to your wishes. As to your refusal to _eat_, I of course won't force you. But given your current state, it would be neglectful not to inform you of the dangers involved in such a decision, and most certainly, I will be informing the Master of this… development."

For several seconds, the Joker didn't move, made no indication even that he would respond, just staring at the butler with the same, narrowed eyes, expression otherwise flat.

And then slowly, a small smile tugged up at the corners of his lips.

"Heh." He laughed out softly. "The _Master_?"

Alfred looked back, saying nothing.

"Is that what he m-makes you call him?"

Still Alfred said nothing.

"You of course r… realize I know who he _is_, yes? Or, who he _pretends_ to be, underneath that m-mask. Who he _really_ is, I know that too."

The madman paused, smile widening just barely, eyes still fixed intently on the older man.

"He knows I know. Very o… obviously, from how he's spoken of you, he holds you in some… high regard. Trusts you. _Respects_ you. And so I assume you _also _know, heh, that _I_ know."

Again he paused, turning his head more fully to face Alfred.

"So then why are you afraid to speak his name to me?"

"Pardon?"

"Heeee. You are a _loyal _dog, aren't you?" The Joker ignored his question.

"I'm not sure what it is you're referring to Sir." Alfred replied smoothly.

The Joker only smiled more, a toothless grin.

"Or course, you would feel some se… sense of betrayal, if you spoke his name to me. You want to _protect_ him, is that right? It's a role you've played all his life. Protector and s-supporter. Ah, he doesn't _make_ you call him Master then. You do that all on your own. Hmm? No doubt in… insist upon it. Heh. Like I said, loyal _dog_. You support him in his endeavors, even those you know to be f-foolish. You know who you remind me of, _Alfred_?"

The butler remained quiet, still.

"Anthony Hopkins, in _The Remains of The Day_. That's what you're like. Oh, you may v-voice a protest every now and again, or your disagreement with s… some particular choice _Bruce _has made."

His smile grew more still, seeing the discomfort which flashed only for a moment across the butler's otherwise blank features.

"But, inevitably, you s-stand with him, no matter what. Yes? I can see it in you, _man-servant_. You pride yourself on it even. On your work. Your _duty_. It must pain you then, to realize how thoroughly you've _f-failed_ at it, hmm?"

"Again Sir…" Alfred began calmly. "I'm unsure of what you're referring…"

"Don't pretend as if you don't _know_." The Joker cut him short. "He goes out _there_, every night, risks his life for what he's convinced himself is r… _right_. You standing idly by, _letting_ him do it, knowing in your heart how very _useless_ it is, how very _stupid_. You're torn, you find, because to stop him would be to pull away that vaunted s… _support_. But to allow it to go on, even _assist_ him in his most _dangerous_ lifestyle, you ul… ultimately help him towards his own demise."

Alfred blinked, finally his face showing emotion, mouth pulling in to a subtle frown.

"I have no course to stop him." He finally countered. "He is a grown man. He makes his own choices in life."

To this the Joker laughed.

"Oh, s-silly old man, you have more power then you realize. He _relies_ upon you, do you not see? It's q-quite apparent, in how he s-speaks of you. Without your support, without you here, he would be incapable of… all of this." He made an attempt of waving his hands about, indicating Batman's operations. "You want to protect him, but you also allow him t… to endanger himself by refusing to abandon him, to ever l-leave his side, even when you disagree with what he's doing. I'm guessing you didn't f-fancy the idea of having _me_ brought here, hmm? I can see you're an intelligent man. You no doubt thought it utterly foolish, harboring a _criminal mastermind_ within the very _base _of Batman's operations. But he insisted, and you agre… agreed. Rather a _confusing _po-position you find yourself in. It's your _loyalty_ you let win out though, which you let _guide_ you. Just like _Stevens_. Of course, we know how poor Stevens wound up, in the end. Don't we?"

Alfred remained quiet, though he hadn't been able to keep the tension from seeping in to his frame, stiffening further his already straight form.

And the Joker would see it.

That was quite obvious now.

This man was dangerous.

Bruce had been correct.

Terribly dangerous… terribly _smart_.

He'd spoken barely a word to him, but apparently, that had been enough.

The butler felt uneasy… suddenly exposed.

Perhaps not speaking to the lunatic was the only option.

In the very least, he had to be more careful, though he'd thought he _was_.

He struggled with what to do then. With whether to deny what the Joker had just said, or to simply leave it unacknowledged.

Either way, the madman was sure to see the truth behind it, no matter the course of action.

A moment more, and he decided it was best simply not to say anything, lest he provide the younger man with more ammunition.

His eyes dropped, focusing on the trey again.

"Very well." He started, carefully, pretending to be unfazed. "If you decide you're suddenly hungry, you need only ask, and I'll prepare for you another meal. Or, if you like, I can simply leave the trey within your reach, and you can attempt to feed yourself. As you wish, I'll leave you to yourself then. Should you need assistance, simply use this," he indicated towards the bell Batman had earlier shown the lunatic. "and I'll do my best to be of service."

If the Joker was at all bothered by Alfred's failure to respond to his bait, it didn't show.

He only smiled wide.

And as the butler moved to get up, he again began speaking.

"You're a military man, aren't you Alfred?"

He halted halfway up, having a moment later to straighten himself.

"Excuse me?" He asked.

The Joker continued smiling.

"You are." He said merrily. "I can tell by th… the way you _move_. How very _precise _you are. Very _uniform_. Very _sharp_. Heh. That's the kind of movement one has _drilled_ in to them. Yes? Well, that and y… your medical _expertise_. You aren't a doctor, but you've obviously had me… medical training. So you were a _field_ medic, am I right?"

Alfred said nothing, staring hard at the Joker.

The Joker stared back, grinning still.

"So you've s… seen worse then this then." He gestured over himself. "Men with l-limbs blown off and h… holes shot through them. That's always rather _gruesome_, isn't it? I've seen my fair share of th… the same. Though, admittedly…" he laughed, still weakly. "it's usually myself who was the ca-cause. Heehee."

Alfred frowned, a shot of disgust running through him amidst the worry.

He kept hearing Bruce's voice, telling him not to talk to the Joker, not to tell him anything about himself.

But it seemed as though he didn't even have to.

The psychotic was figuring things out all on his own.

"Oh, d-don't… don't look so ss… spooked Alfie." The Joker went on, seeing the butler's unease. "I'm only… only m-making light convers-sation. Heh."

He continued looking at the older man, Alfred staring back.

And he noticed suddenly the sweat from the Joker's hairline, seeping slow down his right temple, and the increasingly pronounced lines etching across his features, the slight knot in his brow.

And then the erratic and labored breathing, the thin man's chest rising and falling rapidly, shallowly. And the slight tremble in his voice.

He knew it was his way out of this mess he'd somehow unwittingly stepped in to.

He was lucky, he realized, to have such an opportunity.

He didn't know how Bruce dealt with this madman normally.

"You're in pain." He spoke quickly, pointing out what he'd seen, placing the trey down on the seat.

The Joker choked out a strained laugh.

"Oh-ho… is i… is it th… that obvious?" 

He was struggling suddenly to speak.

"The morphine's wearing off." Alfred continued, reaching in to his pocket and pulling out his watch, checking the time. "You're due for another dose."

The Joker shook his head, at last looking away.

"Nn-no." He said, voice shaking more obviously. "I don't… don't n-need your medication. I've dealt wi… with worse th-then this."

But it was clear to look at him that the Joker was in agony, despite him trying to keep the stress from his face.

Sweat grew thicker along his forehead, now forming across his cheeks and the top of his lip, tension beginning to seep in to his frame.

His expression remained stoic, but it was the creases round his eyes and mouth, and along his brow which gave him away.

"You're suffering a great deal." Alfred said. "I have to give you something to kill the pain. It will only grow worse for you otherwise."

"No!" The Joker's voice suddenly raised, and gone was the airy tone of before, replaced at once by very clear anger. The shift in mood was abrupt. Unexpected. "No." He repeated. "I d… don't want it. I d-don't need it."

"You do." Alfred pushed.

"I _don't_." The Joker continued to argue. "L-leave me alone… Ju… just go aw-way."

The butler's brow furrowed, confusion gripping his mind.

This was… bizarre.

Not only had the madman's tone entirely shifted, so too had his manner.

A moment earlier, he'd been speaking with great eloquence and surety, and frightening intelligence.

Now, strangely, he sounded almost like… a child.

Stubborn and simple.

"Sir…" Alfred began, hands folding at his front. "you spoke before of duty. Well it is now my duty to _help_ you. It is what I have been _charged_ with."

The lunatic shook his head, turning his face further away.

"I'm afraid you have no choice in the matter." The butler continued, motioning towards the medical drawer beside the bed.

"Nn-no." The Joker again repeated. The same, useless protest. "I d-don't…"

Alfred looked to him, seeing the obvious difficulty he was having just forming words now, the pain clearly growing more severe.

"I dd-don't li… like wh… what it does tt… to my mm… mind." The madman finally managed, just barely. "I c… can… han-handle the p-pain. I'd r-rather have the p-p… pain then be unable to th-th… think."

Alfred straightened.

"You won't be able to do much of _anything_ if you don't take the medication." He replied plainly. "Thinking among the functions you'll likely lose. I'm not sure if you're aware, but when Batman brought you in, several of your internal organs had been _ruptured_ from blunt trauma. You're lucky to be _alive_ and you aren't out of the woods yet. Your condition is still quite fragile. You may indeed have a high pain threshold, but I fear you underestimate the severity of your injuries and the discomfort they will cause you. Refusing pain killers will only result in your becoming ill."

And as if on cue, the Joker suddenly retched, trying to turn over as vomit forced its way quickly up from his stomach and throat, gathering thick in his mouth.

But he was too weak now, unable to get up off his back, the bile beginning back down, threatening to choke him.

Alfred saw fast what was happening, moving with as much speed to intervene.

He reached out, forcing his arm underneath the Joker's shoulders, across his back, lifting him up quickly but carefully, leaning him forward against his other arm, across his chest.

And again the Joker retched, the vomit once more forcing its way back up, out of his mouth now, spraying half on to the blanket covering his legs, half on to himself and Alfred's arm, most of it water. He gagged violently, throwing up more liquid a moment later, the action shuttering through his frail body, causing him to shake uncontrollably.

"It's alright." Alfred spoke softly, holding on to him, unconcerned with the bile getting on him. "It's alright. You're okay now."

Again the Joker gagged, again vomiting, thick rivulets of saliva hanging off his lower lip, face screwed up in anguish.

For nearly half a minute longer, this continued, Alfred supporting him, until finally the convulsions stopped, and the madman laid limp against him, frame still trembling, spent.

A few seconds longer the butler held the lunatic up, before at last lowering him slowly to his back, when he'd grown sure he wouldn't again throw up.

Resting the Joker's head on the pillow, he moved quickly to retrieve another, clean blanket from a nearby pile, removing the soiled one and replacing it, pulling the cover up to the younger man's waist.

He then took up a towel from another stack, and began gently wiping the vomit from the Joker's mouth and chin, then from his chest and stomach, ignoring it on himself, until he'd cleaned all of it away.

The Joker's eyes had slipped shut, too weak suddenly to hold them open, to in any way protest.

He felt too sick to care even that he was being handled like a child, the pain now nauseating, making him dizzy.

Without a word, Alfred moved back to the medical drawer, pulling it open and retrieving a packaged syringe and bottle of morphine, along with a packet of alcohol wipes.

Placing the syringe and medication down, he tore the plastic wrapping, removing one of the swabs, returning quickly to the Joker, running the disinfecting cloth over the crook of his right arm. And then he went back to the supplies on the table, opening the other package, removing the needle and poking it through the rubber seal of the morphine, deftly extracting five milligrams.

Once more he turned back to the Joker, depressing the plunger slightly to rid it of air bubbles before taking hold of the thin man's arm, ready to administer the drug.

It was finally then the madman gave resistance, his left hand coming up, grasping weakly round Alfred's wrist, trying to push him away, without success.

"… Don't." He said, voice barely audible, shaking, his eyes opening only halfway, staring unfocused up at the butler.

Alfred gazed down at him, frowning slightly.

"I'm sorry Sir." He began, keeping his voice quiet. "But it is for your own good. You need help."

Again the Joker tried pushing his hand off, again failing.

"I do… don't…"

"It's alright." Alfred reassured, taking the Joker's hand and laying it back down on the mattress. "You'll be able to sleep."

The madman would have raised his hand in protest again, but the limb suddenly felt too heavy. Everything felt too hard.

And he could only lay there then, could do nothing as he felt the prick of the needle, pushing in to his vein, the morphine releasing in to his bloodstream.

His eyes slipped shut again.

He could do nothing.

Alfred pulled the needle from his arm, dropping it in to a hazardous materials box and closing the lid before turning back to the Joker, and pulling the blanket up to his chest.

"Just try to relax." He said. "The pain will stop in a few minutes."

The Joker didn't reply, having only turned his face away, eyes still closed.

The older man watched him a few, long seconds more, observing him closely, before deciding it would be best just to step away and let him rest.

He would be asleep within the next ten minutes, with any luck.

/

Ten minutes later, and Alfred had been right.

The Joker was sleeping, and the butler found himself staring intently.

It was surreal almost, watching him unconscious, how very _different _the lunatic looked then.

Even broken as he was, there was an unsettling energy about the Joker awake, a manic sort of force beneath his articulate and sophisticated manner. A _danger_ about him, even with him too weak to lift his own head.

But asleep… asleep, the Joker appeared as perfectly opposite.

There seemed nothing dangerous about him then. Nothing menacing or _strong_.

He looked, Alfred thought, like a rag doll, or maybe a fragile marionette, with his long, skinny limbs and equally thin torso, and the extreme definition of his face.

Unconscious, the Joker seemed more vulnerable then any man the butler had ever seen.

The contrast to before was almost frightening.

Like this, without the intensity of the Joker's personality to distract you, one could finally see just what the lunatic was made of, just what he _was_.

And what Alfred saw was a man of fragile constitution. It wasn't simply the fact he had obviously been starved, and now was more frail then usual even. The Joker was, physically, of incredibly slight build, very narrow and thin. Narrow shoulders and chest.

Alfred had seen this in photographs and footage of the madman, and even the one time before when he'd seen him in person, from across the street, when he was being brought to court, and they'd rushed him from the back of a SWAT truck, in to the building.

But he'd always been too consumed with the Joker's extreme behavior to ever really notice just how… _small _he was.

How even he seemed… _weak_.

He had no real muscle, save for what was nescesery to stand and move.

And that was _before_.

Now even that had been diminished, to the point it would likely take weeks, if not months before the clown would develop enough muscle to walk under his own power.

Looking at him like this, it was hard to believe Bruce considered the Joker his most dangerous foe.

Alfred had to keep reminding himself of the "conversation" he and the lunatic had earlier had, and how much it had actually freightened him.

The danger of the Joker came from his mind, not his body.

He was viciously smart, and boundlessly malicious.

Still, it was hard to imagine, in that moment, such a fragile, vulnerable looking man as posing any sort of threat.

He seemed so… _helpless_.

And the way he'd acted, when his pain had begun to take him over, and he'd started to lose focus…

He'd been as a child, given the impression of a boy, lost and meandering.

Alfred had heard Bruce speak of the Joker's bizarre, childlike nature, how he often reminded the crusader of a little boy, albeit, some twisted version of such. But still, it was there. How he had the enthusiasm of a child, and even… even the _wonderment_. The boundless fascination and freedom of a child.

Perhaps that was what Alfred had glimpsed, in that moment, when the Joker's concentration had broken. Perhaps, underneath that horrifying intelligence and unnerving refinement, was actually a strangely simple and… somehow _innocent_ person.

It sounded absurd on its face, to describe a creature such as the Joker as innocent.

Certainly not so in the numerous and heinous crimes he had committed.

But maybe in another way.

In the words actual definition.

What Bruce had described to Alfred, what he'd seen on that tape, what had been _done_ to the Joker…

Innocence meant uncorrupted. It meant something pure and clean.

Untouched and unaffected.

Odd as it was to think, in a way, that was what the Joker was.

They'd tried breaking him. Tried forcing him to give in and accept their rules and ways, to provide them with what they _wanted_.

And yet, the Joker never had.

He'd been beyond their corruption, beyond their persuasion and influence.

He hadn't been willing to give up his own convictions, despite their obviously trying their best to make him.

Was that not a kind of innocence then?

Alfred wondered.

The butler hadn't been able to believe the state the Joker had been in when Bruce had brought him here.

He didn't need to watch the tape to know what had been done to him.

He'd never seen a person so savagely beaten, every inch of him covered in deep black and blue bruising, abrasions and lacerations over every part of his skin, face swollen to the point of looking like a mask. He had broken ribs and fingers, and almost every one of his teeth was torn out from his skull, along with the nails from his fingers and toes. And the burnt and blistered skin along his face and scalp…

That was only what had been visible upon first glance.

His insides had practically been turned to mush, a ruptured spleen, colon and liver.

He'd almost died within the first few hours, at one point even flat lining.

Bruce had almost lost it completely then.

It had taken hours of operation before they'd finally brought him to a semi-stable condition.

Even now though, things were less then assured.

It had been afterwards, when they'd taken care of the Joker's insides, when Alfred had begun work on his exterior wounds, that he'd had to stop and, for a short while, collect himself.

It was the Joker's backside, his anus, which had nearly caused the butler to become sick.

It had been torn to shreds, numerous tears requiring stitches, the skin ripped open from what Alfred knew was repeated and brutal penetration.

They'd rapped the Joker, those men. Several times, and viciously.

He knew it without needing to see the tape. Without Bruce needing to tell him the details.

Alfred didn't much want to know the details anyway.

His imagination was enough.

They'd had to test the lunatic for numerous STD's, HIV the most crucial on the list.

Somehow, the results had all come back as negative.

The Joker was a monster, to be sure.

He was terrible.

A terrible man.

But he was also sick.

Not really in control of himself.

Of his actions.

A slave to his own, warped perception, unable to see or understand the world in any way other then how he did.

Not like the men who'd done this to him.

Men able to understand their actions as wrong, and committing those actions regardless.

The Joker couldn't understand his own actions as such.

That had been proven countless times in a court of law.

His inability to grasp concepts of right or wrong, of good and evil.

His inability to even accept those concepts _existence_.

He hadn't deserved this.

Not this.

Of that, Alfred was certain.

He hadn't been able to believe the Joker's state when Bruce had brought him in.

After examining him, he couldn't believe more the Joker hadn't given in to his captor's demands.

Of the many things one could accuse the Joker of being, and of many things, there were, one could never accuse him of being for sale.

This was a man without price.

And a man more complex then the black and white evil most of the world doubtless thought him to be.

Maybe now, Alfred thought, he could better understand Bruce's obsession with him all these years.

Why the Joker had always left him so utterly confounded.

And so utterly entranced.


	15. Chapter 15

**New chapter guys! I'm SO sorry for the long delay, and I hope you guys still care about this. I've just been a bit swamped with some of my other stories, but I assure you, I haven't abandoned this one, and I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you think and, as always, a MASSIVE thank you to all of my readers and reviews. **

**Chapter 15:**

"_Huuhhh!"_

_His eyes snapped open, wide and panicked, searching madly… frantically…_

_Searching for something…_

_But there only was nothing._

_Black emptiness above him…_

_Around him._

_The silence of nothing._

_Of no one…_

_But that was good, wasn't it?_

_It was good when there was no one…_

_It was good…_

_When there was no one but him here…_

_No one but him…_

_No one to make it hurt…_

_Only he had to make sure._

_He had to make sure before he could move…_

_Because he couldn't see in the black…_

_He couldn't know…_

_And it was always bad, if he got caught moving from here…_

_When he wasn't allowed…_

_His mouth fell open, the words forming in his head, and he could feel them in his throat, wanting to come out. Wanting to form…_

_But nothing came…_

_No sound._

_And he suddenly became aware of the taste of leather against his tongue, and the feel of something thick and flat, pressed back, past his teeth, the feel of it wrapped around, across his cheeks and to the back of his head, digging in to the skin, cutting in to it._

_And the panic returned…_

_And he tried without thought then to lift his arms…_

_Away…_

_He had to get away._

_That was all he knew…_

_He had to get out of this place now…_

_Before it was too late._

_Before he came back and…_

_And…_

_But he tried lifting his arms then, and only felt as they snapped back down above his head, and like against his cheeks, something pressing across his wrists, rough and unyielding, digging in to the skin, tearing in to it, something wet and slick beneath, dripping down, slow and painful, down his arms._

_And at his ankles the same, his legs kept still as his arms, unable to lift them, unable to move them…_

_And then there was the assault of air, cold and unpleasant against his bare and exposed skin, creeping over his naked body…_

_Holding him cruel in its grip…_

_And panic turned to fear…_

_Stinging in his eyes, the wet of tears as they spilled over, slipping fast down his temples, in to his hair._

_Breath refusing to come now, harsh gasps tearing from his throat, desperate and choked as he began to sob…_

_And the sound muffled back down…_

_Too quiet to hear…_

_Too weak…_

_No one would find him down here…_

_No one would ever find him…_

_No one would ever save him…_

_Not down here…_

_Not down here…_

_Alone…_

_All alone…_

_No one would ever save him…_

_No one would ever care…_

"Huhhhh!"

His eyes snapped open, filling instantly with blinding white, forcing his lids shut against the intrusive glare, painful and searing.

Too much…

Too much…

When all there'd been was black…

For so long…

All there'd been was darkness.

Where…

Where was he?

Where was he now?

Where had he been taken?

He shifted, expecting the feel of his arms being snapped back in to place.

But all that came was the exhaustion of his limbs, movement ceased only by lethargy, not restraints…

And with a little effort more, he could bring them down, bring his hands over his hurting eyes…

Hurting…

Everything hurt…

Some dull, aching throb through his skull…

Through all of him.

Every inch…

He'd felt this before…

This kind of pain…

Acute, paralyzing agony…

Sitting just beneath the surface…

Barely held back.

Sitting right there…

Waiting…

Waiting to break free…

Waiting to consume him.

He could feel it…

And then the familiar haze of what kept it down…

Fogged and slowed…

The sickening dull of drugs through his veins…

Gripping his mind.

Deadening his thoughts…

Pushing them near to a screeching halt.

Where was he now?

He couldn't remember.

Some place…

Some place dark…

And cold…

Some place alone…

And even the very air was oppressive, clinging to dampened skin.

Like thousands of tiny needles…

Pressing, hard…

Not hard enough…

Torture through awareness.

And he wished they would just break through…

Increase the pain…

Make him bleed…

Better than this knowing it was there…

But not being able to feel it.

Not being able to feel what was _his_…

Oh Jesus, where was he?

If only he could _see_…

And suddenly from silence, there came noise…

A voice…

He thought…

He thought it was a voice…

Something deep and heavy…

Grating inside his head…

A man's voice…

Someone big…

Someone powerful…

Bigger and stronger than him…

So much stronger…

And unreasonably…

There came a feeling…

Unwelcome…

Unknown…

Unknown to him…

But he recognized it just the same…

Panic through his heart…

… Fear…

Him…

Him…

It was him…

And he had to get away…

Oh God, God…

He had to get away now!

"Uhhaahhhhhh!"

Panic worse as he felt the powerful hands, crushing down over his wrists, holding him…

Keeping him still…

Keeping him trapped here…

And he struggled…

Fighting against it…

Knowing it wasn't any good…

Knowing he couldn't get away…

Could never get away…

Never could…

"Uhhahhh! Huhhh!"

And then there came the voice again…

More distinct now…

He could hear it clear…

Hear the words…

Snapping hard in his ears.

Close…

So close…

"… down! Calm down!"

Something less like gravel…

Something less terrible…

Less sickening…

Just as familiar…

"Joker, calm down, for Christ's sake! Calm down. You're okay. You're okay. I've got you… Let yourself go here. Let yourself go."

He felt his fingers, being pried slowly, carefully…

Straightened out…

Only a moment later did he feel the pain, the stinging of the digits, digging hard in to the skin of his own face…

"You're okay now, come on…"

The voice again…

And suddenly he knew who's it was…

Suddenly he knew…

"Come on…"

The hands were grasping gently over his now, pulling them down, pulling them away from his face…

Gently…

Gently…

And the figure of the voice came in to his eyes…

He could see him…

Broad and dark…

A shapeless mass at first…

Vision blurred…

Unfocused…

But still he knew…

And instantly the feeling of before had vanished, the memory of it even, fading in to nothing…

Fading in to what had never been…

"You're okay now."

Batman stood over him, staring down, one hand still clasping loosely round the Joker's left wrist, holding him delicately as his other came up.

And the madman felt something cold and wet, pressing against his face, across his forehead and down, over his cheeks…

Something soft…

He blinked, rapidly, trying better to clear his sight, the crusader coming in to sharper view.

And his mouth fell open, seeing him there, thinking to speak aloud to him…

"… Batma…"

His voice broke, disappearing in to the air, barely audible…

Barely even a whisper

"Shhh, shh, shh…" the vigilante hushed him, continuing to dab at his face with the wet cloth, cleaning the sweat away. "Don't talk." He said. "You're okay. You were just having a bad dream."

The Joker stared back at him, confused, eyes lost and without understanding.

Bruce frowned.

At least, he thought that's what it was.

He realized suddenly that, before these last, few days, he'd never actually, _really_ seen the Joker _sleep_.

Not like this.

He'd seen him unconscious enough times, certainly.

Usually from having beaten him to it himself.

And he'd seen him plenty in Arkham, under the haze of a drug stupor, after the orderlies or nurses there had decided he was too much to handle, putting him under then using dangerously large doses of antipsychotic medicines and sedatives. Amounts and mixtures which would easily have killed any regular, full grown man.

They were able to get away with it because of the Joker's heightened resistance to concentrations of chemical substances.

Usually it only caused him only to become incredibly lethargic, and more or less unresponsive to any sort of stimulation.

But more than once, Batman had come to Arkham and found the Joker passed completely out, his heart rate having slowed to near undetectable levels, nearly forced in to a state of comatose.

Bruce had been absolutely disgusted, he remembered, by the inhumanness of the staff's treatment, and had made a massive fuss about it during numerous meetings of the asylums board directors.

The Joker may have been a terrible human being, but he was _still_ a human being, and despite the uncanny ability of his warped physiology to resist the affects of most drugs, he could only take so much…

Bruce realized now, though at the time he'd denied it to himself, he'd been very much afraid they were going to kill the lunatic, passing it off as an _accidental _drug overdose.

And he knew no one but him would have investigated it beyond that.

He'd managed to get some of the staff fired, those who'd been caught on the security feeds, pumping the Joker full of dosages five, six, even ten times the designated amount. But those who hadn't been foolish enough to let themselves be seen, he hadn't been able to do anything about, the politics of Arkham leaving his hands more or less tied.

And so he'd taken to regularly monitoring them himself, over the last, few years.

Only, he wasn't always able to catch everything they did.

He knew that.

He knew the orderlies and guards there beat the Joker.

That they beat him badly.

And that they did it often.

More so than with the other patients.

Because of who he was.

Because of his reputation.

Because…

Because he never screamed…

Batman didn't have the time to constantly watch and make sure those things didn't happen, his time spread too thin across the streets of the city.

He'd tried justifying it to himself…

Tried making himself feel better about it, telling himself that the Joker deserved it, that he'd probably done something to deserve the beatings…

But he knew now that wasn't true.

He'd always known it, if he was being honest with himself.

And he could admit to himself now the horror he'd felt, all those times he'd gone in and found the madman ravaged nearly beyond recognition, often having been admitted to the infirmary, it was so bad.

Or he would find him in his cell, his face unmarred, but able to see from the stiffness of his movement, or his plain inability to move at all, that underneath his uniform, he was beaten all to hell.

Able to admit to himself the horror he'd felt too, when the Joker would just smile, and laugh, and act as though nothing were wrong at all…

Like on that tape…

Exactly like on that tape…

The staff of Arkham always had the same line…

The same excuse…

That the Joker had done it to himself.

But Bruce knew also that wasn't true.

And he guessed he'd always known…

He realized…

He guessed he'd always known how sick the Joker was…

Always realized the tragedy of him…

When he could only laugh at how almost every day, he was so savagely, physically tormented by those who were charged with his care…

And he'd never seen the Joker sleep.

Not really.

Never seen him dream.

All the times before his unconsciousness too deep to allow any dreams at all.

And he'd never even thought before…

Never considered the Joker would dream.

And dreams like this…

Like he was sure the Joker had just had…

Nightmares…

Bruce had never even thought possible.

Not for him…

For a man without fear…

But it had been fear he'd shown…

Bruce knew it, for how deeply it burned in his own heart every day…

Every moment of every day.

He'd just begun washing the Joker when it started.

The lunatic had been breaking out frequently, every few minutes in to profuse sweats. It had been happening since yesterday, since Bruce gotten back from his patrol, and the Joker was again sleeping, Alfred informing him that he'd been that way for most of the five hours he'd been gone.

And so Bruce had given him a blanket bath, the Joker still far too weak to leave the bed, obviously too weak to wash himself.

He hadn't woken, and all through the rest of the night, and the next morning and afternoon, the madman had continued to sweat heavily.

Bruce knew the Joker's vanity would only take a further blow from it.

He'd, after all, always been exemplary clean.

Even in Arkham, the Joker had always taken great care with his appearance, always diligent and sure with washing himself, with keeping his hair well trimmed and clean, his nails and skin clean. He rarely if ever missed an opportunity to go to the showers or visit with the asylum barber and manicurist. And Batman had never seen him when even his uniform hadn't been well pressed.

Bruce realized, in fact, he hadn't ever seen the Joker at any point, anywhere, when he wasn't well kempt and clean-cut.

Outside of Arkham, he'd always, _always_ been dressed to the nines, no matter where he was or what he was doing.

It was one of his great paradoxes'.

The man didn't seem to care whether he lived or died, didn't care when he was being beaten half to death, or violated in the most heinous and disgusting of ways.

Didn't shy away from engaging in the dirtiest, and ugliest of work.

And yet, his appearance…

His _appearance_ was important to him…

He never wanted to be seen as less than perfectly groomed.

As less than stately.

Even if his actions, or the actions of those against him, were anything but.

That too was a first, like so many things with him now.

Seeing the Joker dirtied and succumbed to the filth of the human condition.

The crusader supposed it was as much a shock to him.

Another reminder that the man he now looked down at was _only_ just a man.

Not the force Batman had so often mistaken him for.

The lunatic had already fallen in to some kind of depression.

Bruce didn't want it worsening.

Something about it left him unnerved.

Seeing the Joker emotionally _downed_.

He was sure it would become only more severe once the Joker came to realize his own, squalid state, and that he couldn't even really lift his own arms to wash himself of it.

The least he could do then for him, Bruce thought, was to wash him himself.

At least give him the dignity of remaining clean as he'd always been, even if he couldn't do it on his own.

He brought the cloth back to the basin, dipping it in the water to wet it again, wringing it out a moment later and putting it back to the Joker's face, smoothing slowly and carefully over the sharp contours of his features, making sure not to press too hard.

Bruce kept his eyes on his own hand working, even as he felt the Joker's on him, watching him.

And for nearly half a minute longer, the two of them remained silent, barely a sound in the place, but for the noise of the cloth, dragging gently over still tender and bruised skin.

Only when Bruce had moved the cloth down lower, washing along the length of the Joker's neck, did the madman open his mouth to speak.

"… What are you doing?" He croaked, voice almost soundless.

The vigilante's eyes flicked up to meet his finally, continuing on in his ministrations.

"I'm washing you." He informed, voice even, steady, even as he felt a slight flushing in his cheeks.

He didn't know why.

The Joker stared back at him a long moment, again quiet, eyes seeming to shine with some unspoken thought.

And then suddenly Batman saw his lips pull up, weakly, just barely forming a smirk.

"… It feels nice." He said softly, still almost too quiet to hear.

And there was nothing mocking in his tone.

Nothing insincere.

Bruce looked back, unable to help the pained lines round the corners of his own mouth.

How broken the Joker looked…

How broken he sounded…

Jesus…

He could feel his throat constrict.

And so he only gave a single nod, eyes sliding away again, continuing to run the cloth across the madman, delicately over his protruding collarbone, up across his narrow shoulders.

The Joker's head fell back, against the pillow, and Bruce saw as, for a moment, his eyes slipped back shut, his body seeming to relax from its tensed and troubled state of just seconds before.

He gave no resistance, no protest as the crusader took hold of his arm, lifting it and running the cloth from his shoulder, down the limb, scrubbing lightly at the crook above his elbow and moving lower, to his wrist, and then hand, being careful as he cleaned over and between the lunatics long and delicate fingers, more careful still with the ones broken.

And still the Joker remained with his eyes closed, no tension as Bruce lifted his arm higher, dragging the cloth across his palm, and then to the underside of the limb, all the way down to the pit of his arm.

There was little hair there, like the rest of him.

It hadn't been burned off, as it had from his scalp. But torn from the roots, the same, Bruce had noticed, as the hair around his genital area.

Those bastards had done all they could to torture him.

Bringing the cloth back over, across his bony chest, Bruce began to wonder.

The Joker had been dreaming…

And in his unconscious state, he'd revealed something the crusader had never seen even a hint of while he was waking…

He'd seemed panicked…

Desperate…

It had started with low moans, emanating from the back of his throat, and at first, Bruce had put it down to him subconsciously detecting the physical pain he was no doubt in, even with the morphine running through his bloodstream.

But then his face had begun to contort, lining heavy with emotion Batman had been sure the Joker could never feel, his brow knotting hard, mouth pulling at the corners, in to a tortured frown.

And his moans had turned to keening whines, and then soft whimpers, until finally Bruce had heard him actually speak, his voice a broken, wavering whisper as he'd actually _begged_…

"_No, please d-don't_…"

And then his hands had begun to lift and paw weakly, uselessly at the air, like he was searching blindly for some kind of purchase.

Bruce had ceased washing him at that point, watching with both confusion and fear, unsure of what was happening.

And then, just as abruptly as it had started, the Joker's eyes came flying open, and almost immediately, his hands had come over his face, his fingers digging hard against it.

He would have torn the skin open for sure if his nails weren't less than halfway grown back now.

And that's when the vigilante had taken hold of his wrists, forcing his hands away, seeing the panic was driving the lunatic towards hurting himself.

What had he been seeing, Batman wondered.

When he'd seen the Joker show no fear, even as he was being brutally beaten and raped.

There'd been no _fear_ in his eyes.

There'd been nothing at all.

So what the hell could have caused it in his sleep?

Bruce wasn't able to help his curiosity then as he went on washing the lunatic, beginning down his other arm with the cloth.

"What did you dream about?" He asked quietly, keeping his eyes fixed from the Joker's own.

A long moment past, the Joker not moving, giving no indication even he'd heard the vigilante.

And for a moment, Batman thought maybe he'd fallen back asleep.

But then the madman's lids came slowly open, blinking a moment against the light overhead, trying once more to focus as his gaze fell over the crusader above him.

"… What?" He asked hoarsely.

"… Your dream." Batman hesitated only a moment, looking up and seeing the same puzzlement of before across the Joker's face. "What was it about?"

Another, several seconds, the Joker remaining silent, watching Bruce with rare uncertainty.

And then, abruptly, he smiled, almost sweetly, a soft rasp escaping his lips, one which Bruce was sure had been meant as a laugh.

"I don't dream darling." He at last answered, sounding amused and sure.

And the crusader could see in his eyes that he didn't know…

He _really _didn't know.

Like he didn't remember…

And he hadn't heard Batman, tell him he was having a nightmare.

Almost like he'd pushed it completely from his mind, all in a matter of seconds.

And abruptly, Bruce felt uneasy.

Was that even possible?

He knew the Joker's memory could be spotty, and unreliable, even in the best of moments.

But to forget something so quickly…

He wasn't denying it.

Batman could see he truly didn't recall it…

_Any _of it.

And he thought suddenly to just leave it alone.

By some bizarre chance, the Joker was actually in a _good_ mood. And if he pressed him on this, he knew it would only destroy it, and make things all the much harder for the both of them.

His head shook, glancing away, continuing to wash the madman.

"Never mind." He said. "I just…" he struggled, trying to come up with some excuse. "I was thinking of something else and forgot myself a moment."

The Joker's smile widened, eyes still fixed on the larger man, another, rasped chuckle pulling past his lips.

"Ohh, ho, ho… Batsy, you haven't been partaking the _morphine _supply, have you? I thought that was reserved solely for the purposes of keeping me _subdued_."

His eyes shifted, glancing off to his right, gaze fixing on the drip, still taped and sticking from the crook of his arm.

He frowned slightly.

"That _man-servant_ of yours took _advantage _of me, I hope you know." He went on, an exaggerated pout forming across his mouth as he looked back to Bruce. "I thought you were supposed to be _protecting _me doll-face. Haven't I been compromised enough?"

Bruce paused, glancing up at him, the Joker staring back, expression hard, without amusement…

But it lasted only a moment, before his lips again upturned at their corners, and he began again to laugh, the sound again only a quiet shutter.

Another reminder of how devastated this man had been.

His laugh…

Near soundless…

So much less than it had been.

So much weaker…

But still… he laughed.

Still…

And maybe more than anything, that was most astounding of all.

And Bruce couldn't understand…

Maybe didn't want to think about even…

How it was that sound could ever have made him happy…

"I'm just joking you babe." The Joker said, grinning. "Get it? _Joking_ you, heeheehee…"

Bruce's expression remained stoic, pretending to glare back a long moment before looking away, continuing to wash the madman, down his torso now.

"Very funny." He said flatly. "But don't laugh. You don't have the strength."

"Oh, ho, hum…" the Joker waved a dismissive hand, turning his head away. "You're never any fun…"

For a long, few seconds, he said nothing.

"But seriously," he glanced back to the vigilante. "I'm going to have to pay the old man back for jabbing me with that needle when I specifically told him not to."

Bruce's eyes flicked up to him, hard and withering.

The Joker only held his eyes back.

"You won't lay a finger on him." Batman said, voice clipped, unhappy.

The lunatic frowned, eyes narrowing before, for a second time, he turned his head on its side.

"Like I said," he went on softly. "no fun at all."

"Keep it up and you'll see just how _not_ fun I can be." Bruce went on, returning his attention to washing the clown.

The Joker said nothing to that, lying still, feeling his mood suddenly begin to sour.

If he had the strength, he swore, he would sock Batman right in his ridiculous face.

Never could take a damned joke…

And that old man too…

He didn't give a damn what the Bat said…

Soon as he got his legs back under him, that dried up old sack was going to see his expiration date was well past due…

Though at the rate this was going, it would be weeks before then…

Of all the wretched luck…

He remained silent then, trying suddenly to ignore the sound of the crusader wetting the cloth again in the basin, and the feel of it as he dragged it along his chest, lower still to his abdomen…

Lower still, to over his naval…

Unable to ignore the shot of fluttering tingles through his insides, an inadvertent peel of laughter bursting past his lips.

He squirmed…

"Hahahahee… B-Batsy, stop it!" He suddenly gasped, the sensation spreading through him. "S-stop!"

Weakly, he tried swatting the vigilante's hand away, and Bruce pulled back, surprised.

Still the Joker continued to writhe, gasping harder as he giggled.

"Heeheehee, do… don't do that." He finally breathed, laughter dissipating, turning towards the vigilante and opening his eyes, tears having formed and pooling. "Ca… can't you see I'm ticklish, ya big galoot!" He chastised, grinning.

Bruce stared back at him, bemused by the sudden, childish outburst.

Or not childish…

_Childlike_…

Like everything else these last, few days, this too was disturbing to him.

Maybe, he thought, for how unexpected it was.

The physical resemblance he suddenly noticed…

The emotional…

Even the mental…

It was like the Joker had never grown up.

More of that paradox.

The most sophisticated and developed brain of any man he'd ever met, razor sharp wit and cutting sarcasm dripping so often from his every word. Absolute mockery.

And yet he'd routinely displayed a bizarre playfulness recently befitting _only_ a very young child, or some sort of simpleton even, a mentally challenged person.

Thinking of it…

Wasn't that what all of the Joker's _schemes_ could be boiled down to?

The fanciful whims of a deranged little boy?

He'd always enacted them with all the fervor and enthusiasm of someone not yet bored of the world.

And suddenly the Joker was smiling almost sheepishly…

"When did you get back here anyhow?" He asked suddenly, changing the subject.

And Batman exhaled, not even realizing he'd been holding his breath.

"… Yesterday." He said. "Last night."

The Joker's eyes went wide.

"What?" He asked, unable, not even trying to hide the shock from his voice. "What do you mean? I've been…?"

"You've been asleep almost 24 hours." Bruce replied, continuing in cleaning the lunatic, pulling the blanket back off his legs now, dragging the cloth gently down his quadriceps, washing them of sweat and grime, the Joker watching him with still disbelieving eyes. "You're body's trying to catch up from the lack of rest."

The Joker's brow furrowed, his lips pulling in to a comical frown.

"Well now, see!" He began ranting. "_This_ is why I didn't want that old goat pumping me full of his fancy gold liquid! It's made me lose a day! And what's more, how do I know he didn't get all kinky with me while I slept Bats? Knowing you, you've got this place decked out with tomorrow's latest in surveillance technology. I think maybe you should go check the tapes, make sure Jeeves didn't steal a kiss or two."

Bruce felt his heart seize, staring at the madman with widened eyes, a kind of sickening dread working its way down through him.

Did he know?

Did the Joker know about the tape?

Was this his way of telling him so?

Why else would he make mention of something like that?

After…

After what…

Suddenly, the lunatic burst out laughing, the sound still labored and weak.

"Oh ho! Bat-babe!" He chortled. "Y… you shoulda' seen your face! Hahahaha!"

And now Bruce only felt more confused.

He'd been…

He'd been _joking_?

About _that_?

Jesus…

_Why_?

Why in the hell would he joke about that when…

God, when he'd…

And abruptly the crusader found himself unable to look any more at the madman, his eyes shifting down, a sinking hurt spreading through his heart.

Images of what he'd seen, flashing through his mind…

Of what they'd done to this man…

And gradually the Joker's laughter grew softer, and softer still, until it no longer came, and he stared at the vigilante with narrowed eyes.

"Why, Ringo, you look like someone just… _walked _over your grave!" He said, affecting a southern accent.

And again he began laughing.

"… It isn't funny Joker." Batman said finally after several seconds longer, keeping his gaze fixed from him, voice flat.

"Ohhh, don't be so despondent dear!" The smaller man went on. "It's only a joke. So _sensitive_ when it comes to your little helper. But rest assured, that old fool has a pole shoved so far up his ass, I doubt he's seen or even _contemplated_ any sort of action in close to thirty years. Nearly long as you and I have walked this earth, hmm? Though I _am_ so good looking, it would be hard to resist, no matter how uptight you were."

Suddenly his eyes slid away, his head once more turning on its side.

He gave a feeble shrug.

"At least, I was. Before dear ol' doc and his cronies got their hands on me. Heh."

It was abrupt, the energy draining from his voice.

And Batman found himself frowning severe, eyes flicking back to the lunatic.

He didn't see, he guessed, the real reason he'd become so dismayed over the madman making a joke about his being sexually assaulted.

It had nothing to do with Alfred.

That could be put down to the morphine, no doubt dulling the Joker's senses.

And for that, Bruce supposed he should be grateful.

If the lunatic were to glean the actual reason…

If he actually knew what he himself did…

That he'd seen what he did…

Things would become more painful…

More worrisome than they already were.

He didn't need the Joker becoming more stressed…

Not with his delicate condition now…

"Look, come here…" he started, wanting suddenly to move away from this, before the Joker realized what was actually troubling him. He reached out, grasping the smaller man softly by his thin wrists, beginning to pull him up in to a sitting position.

The Joker gave no resistance, and still Bruce couldn't get used to how light he was…

How it felt like lifting nothing.

"I've got to wash your back." He informed, placing his arm across the Joker's chest, leaning him forward, supporting him easily.

And the Joker hung limp against him, his head flopping down, arms hanging slack at his sides.

Batman heard him giggle.

"Ohh, hoo, hoo, wait'll _kitty cat_ hears about this." He started as the crusader took up the cloth from the basin. "She'll be _so_ jealous!"

"Shut up." Bruce said flatly, leaning closer, bringing his arm slightly lower across the Joker's chest, just above where he was bandaged, allowing him to lean the madman farther forward.

Again he heard the smaller man laugh, but he didn't say anything more as the vigilante began delicately as possible to dab across the expanse of his back.

And for what must have been the tenth time since bringing him here, the crusader found himself nearly transfixed, not on the bruising or sores along the Joker's brittle skin, or the innumerable cuts and lacerations and contusions.

But on something much older.

Long since healed.

But telling the tale of something which maybe never would.

Lash marks.

Dozens upon dozens of them, like from some whip, or something heavier even, crossed over each other, overlapping and in every which direction. Horrible and painful looking despite their obvious age, seeming swollen as they rose off the skin in uneven patterns.

This hadn't been the first time Bruce had seen them.

There'd been times before.

Many times.

The first time had been years ago now…

So many years…

When the Joker had first been admitted to Arkham Asylum, and they'd examined him.

He'd been a physical anomaly, to say the least, and they'd taken literally hundreds of photographs of him on top of the battery of tests they'd run over the course of several months.

He'd hacked in to the hospital database early on to look over their results, as fascinated as the Joker's doctors were with him. And it was there he'd first seen the grotesque number of scars across his back, and the backs of his legs too, obviously the results of having been repeatedly and brutally whipped.

By something…

And someone…

But he'd never found how from where the scars had come…

Or from who.

Like so many things with the Joker, it had remained an utter mystery.

But one he'd never stopped wondering about.

For so long, it had seemed impossible to Bruce, the notion that someone could have submitted the Joker that way, at _any_ point in his life.

That anyone could have had him in the position, or had him there for long enough to do that.

The notion had seemed implausible at best.

A force like the Joker could never be held.

Could never be controlled or subjugated.

And yet, from the positioning of the marks, the angles of them, it was evident they weren't self-inflicted.

Someone had done it to the Joker, at some point.

And as the crusader had learned recently, all too well, it had been a mistake to assume the Joker's fearlessness made him something invincible.

He was not.

Batman had never thought to ask the Joker before now from where the lash marks had come.

He'd never known anything of the madman's past, and the Joker had never offered to share, except newly spun tales every once in a great while, always the details changing, but each told as convincingly as the last.

It was impossible to ever know when the Joker was lying or telling the truth, and so Bruce had assumed it a useless endeavor, asking him anything. Especially asking him about something like this.

He didn't even know if the Joker knew himself.

But something now…

As he went carefully along the lunatic's scarred and bruised back…

The question just suddenly slipped past his lips…

And he didn't know what now had changed to make it.

"What happened?" He asked, his voice unusually soft, continuing to move the cloth across the smaller man's skin, trying not to press to hard against the still vicious contusions.

The Joker's eyes had closed, his entire frame lax as he let Batman support him.

"Hmm?" He asked, sounding tired as he looked suddenly.

"… Your back." Bruce went on, slight apprehension building in the pit of his stomach.

He hoped the Joker wouldn't dissolve in to some sort of fit again.

"These lash marks." He continued, keeping his eyes focused on his task. "What happened to you?"

For a long moment, there came no reply from the madman, and Bruce worried then he'd made him angry again, tension seeping in to his limbs.

But then he heard the low, almost inaudible chuckling, the light shutter through the Joker's body as he began to laugh.

And the crusader's hand ceased its movement, his eyes shifting down, seeing the lunatic still hung with his eyes closed.

For a long, few seconds more, he went on, giggling softly, before finally he spoke, that too almost soundless.

"I don't know." He said.

And Bruce looked down at him more, leaning back farther, trying to see his face.

He hadn't expected any answer like that.

What sounded like an honest answer.

"… You don't…" He started.

And finally the Joker's head lifted, looking at the crusader.

"I don't know." He repeated, and there was no mockery in his tone.

His face pulled in to a strangely flat expression.

And then suddenly he shrugged, as though bored, and his eyes slid away from Batman's, back down.

"They've always been there." He went on, his voice nearly a whisper.

And he sounded… almost _lost_.

Confused even.

Something else Bruce was so unused to.

The Joker had always sounded so ridiculously _sure_.

"Since the day I was _born_." The madman finished, now again chuckling, low and quiet.

Bruce frowned slightly, watching him a long moment, silent.

He knew what he was referring to.

The night the Joker really came in to _being_.

Batman knew it was only then the lunatic regarded as the start of his life.

What came before had never seemed to matter to him.

Whatever that was.

From his answer just now about the lash marks, it seemed maybe like the Joker didn't even know.

"… What was that like?" His voice came out even softer as he dipped the cloth back in to the basin, beginning a moment later to again wash the smaller man's back. "Coming out of there? I mean… coming out of those chemicals actually… actually alive?"

A moment past, the Joker silent.

And then he suddenly smirked, scoffing lightly.

"… Painful." He answered.

Bruce again paused, looking at him, mouth pulling slightly down at the corners.

And it seemed then the Joker would say nothing further.

Wouldn't elaborate.

And Bruce thought he would just have to let it go.

Everything seemed so fragile now.

Like one wrong move, and everything would break.

He'd never been afraid of upsetting the Joker before.

His very motive beyond stopping him even, in all these years they'd gone against each other, had been _trying _to upset him.

Because he never _could_.

And he'd wanted to so badly after a time.

Just wanted to for once throw the Joker for a loop.

To _affect_ him in some way.

_Any _way.

And he'd felt at times like _he _was going mad from it.

He'd never expected to be in this position.

So worried over saying anything, doing anything to hurt the madman.

Jesus, it was surreal…

He moved, going again to wash the clown, forcing himself to let it go.

Stopped less than a moment later by the sound of the Joker's voice…

Frozen.

"Imagine…" he said, so quiet now the vigilante had to strain just to hear him. "imagine coming in to the world fully formed. Developed absolutely. Physically, mentally, emotionally… Everything already in place for you. Everything _complete_."

The Joker turned his eyes up to Batman, and there was a vague, almost imperceptible frown, tugging at his lips.

"Imagine it. Knowing what you are. Knowing it without _question_. And yet… having no context for it. No memories of how you came to be. No _reason_ behind it. No _cause_. No understanding, or knowledge of what _built_ you… Nothing to explain it… Imagine you just… _are_."

He stared back at the vigilante with hard, cold eyes, saying nothing then.

Until suddenly he smirked, at last his eyes slipping away.

"That's what it's like Batman." He said. "That's what it _was_."

For a long while, Bruce said nothing back, staring at the smaller man for a time, before finally, his hand fell way, dropping the cloth back in to the basin.

And suddenly it was like he couldn't look at him.

Couldn't bear it…

He'd never considered it, for some reason…

Never thought what that must be…

To be so confused…

So…

Lost…

And how terribly alone that was…

He grabbed up a towel, drying the Joker's dampened skin before wrapping his other arm round his narrow shoulders, beginning slowly to lower him on to his back again.

He kept his eyes away.

"… I'm sorry." He said softly, laying the lunatic's head on to the pillow.

The Joker smiled weakly up at him, lids feeling suddenly so heavy.

"No." He whispered. "None of that now."

Batman looked back a moment, finally bringing his eyes to the Joker's face, saying nothing for a long time, just watching as the smaller man watched back.

And then finally, slowly, he began to pull his arm out from beneath him, starting to lean back, away.

And the Joker reached up, without hesitation, surprisingly quick.

And it was like something hot, flaring against Bruce's skin as the long, thin fingers brushed lightly against his exposed jaw, the tips following the curve of it, feeling the slight beginnings of stubble across his chin.

He felt himself frozen, paralyzed to the spot as the Joker continued exploring his face, fingers tickling almost painfully soft over his lips then, and higher, over what was visible of his cheeks, higher still, to now covered flesh.

And where there'd been a glistening curiosity in his eyes before, a vague smile, the madman's expression abruptly fell disappointed, mouth pulling in to a just noticeable frown.

"Show me your face." He breathed quietly, almost…

Pleadingly…

Bruce didn't move, filled now with uncertainty, unable to keep it from his face as be stared back, thin fingers still resting against his cheek.

And the Joker saw the hesitation in his eyes, the concern, and his own lips pulled back up, smiling softly.

"Since we're in the process of bonding…" he went on quietly, smile turning to an oddly playful grin.

But for a long moment, Bruce didn't reply, his own lips pulled in to a slight frown.

He didn't know what to think.

As it had always been with the Joker.

He never knew what to make of the lunatic's behavior, what it meant.

He seemed so…

_Harmless_ now.

That had always been a mistake to think.

He could still remember the first time he'd seen the madman, and he remembered how, he hadn't thought much of him.

He'd been ridiculously tall, but also painfully thin… to the point it look like just a strong breeze might knock him over.

For all the devastation and mayhem he'd caused in such a short period, the vigilante had been expecting someone…

He didn't know.

He supposed more robust.

Someone physically imposing.

But he remembered thinking the Joker was anything but.

And that had been his first error in judgment.

One of countless others, which he continued to make till this very day.

He'd gone at the clown, thinking he was going to take him out without even trying, and there, unfortunately for him, he'd learned of the Joker's deceptive quickness and agility, and the absolute ferocity with which he fought.

He wasn't particularly strong, though far stronger than he may have appeared. And clearly, he hadn't been trained in any sort of way.

But it was the way he gave everything of himself in a fight, the way he held _nothing _back, that made him a handful for _any _fighter.

He'd never cared what happened to you, and never cared what happened to himself.

And that was what made him so deadly.

If you slipped for even a moment with him, and you would pay the price dearly.

And yet…

Something now…

Bruce had always known there was this sort of aspect to the smaller man.

This sort of… giddy curiosity and even…

Wonderment… he guessed.

It had just always seemed so at odds with who and what the Joker _was_.

This vicious, heartless, maniacal killer who, at times, resembled nothing so much as he did a little kid.

And there it was now…

That same impression.

And Bruce couldn't understand what was causing it, but somehow… it made him feel almost _bad _for the Joker.

Like he needed protecting or something.

He'd never felt that before.

Not ever.

Not for this man.

And suddenly his paranoid mind began working against him, making him think something must be amiss. That the madman was angling for something beyond the surface of what it seemed, and he was somehow manipulating the crusader in to falling off his guard.

"Why?" He asked abruptly, voice cold and unfriendly.

The Joker didn't miss it, frowning himself now, his hand at last falling away.

"Because I _want_ to." He answered. "Don't be so uptight darling. I already know who you are. What _nefarious_ plans do you think I could concoct from seeing what I'm aware of already?"

"But _why_?" Bruce pushed. "Why do you want to see my face? I thought it didn't matter to you."

The Joker sighed, eyes rolling as at last he looked away, giving a feeble shrug.

"Because I want to see if you're as handsome as all those airbrushed magazine covers make you out to be." He muttered, sounding sullen.

And there it was again…

Bruce felt bad for him.

He really _did_.

Maybe it was because of everything, everything he knew the madman had gone through these last, several weeks…

And he thought suddenly his apprehension seemed absurd.

The Joker was right.

He _did _know who he was, and whether he saw his face now or not didn't matter.

If he was going to blow the whistle on him, he would have done it long ago.

And besides, he reasoned, if the Joker was going to be with him for the next, several months, it wasn't practical to think he could stay in costume around him that entire time. When he wasn't out there, running patrol, he spent long hours here in the cave, doing research and investigation, and the suit would become almost unbearably uncomfortable if he kept it on all the time like he was doing now.

He reasoned, in fact, he was going to have to take it off at some point around the lunatic. And he supposed now was as good a time as any.

Just to get it out of the way…

"… Alright." He answered.

And the Joker looked back to him, actual surprise across his face.

"Alright?" He asked.

And the vigilante nodded.

"Yeah." He replied.

And finally, without further hesitation, his gauntleted hand lifted, grabbing the cowl from behind. Only a moment more, and he'd pressed down on something, followed by what sounded like a soft rush of air releasing, and both his hands came up then, beginning to pull the mask back off himself.

The Joker watched with anticipatory, almost transfixed eyes as he did, frozen still and silent.

Until Bruce had removed the mask completely, bringing it down and placing it on to his lap, looking back at the madman, staring in seeming amazement, as though disbelieving of what he saw.

Bruce waited, his heart beating suddenly louder in his ears…

Suddenly faster…

And the Joker's lips at once pulled up in to a smile, turning then to a grin, like uncontainable excitement…

Without warning, his hand reached up again, his long palm resting against Bruce's cheek, cupping it gently.

And he breathed out, his voice almost too quiet to hear, a hushed whisper…

"Oh Batsy," he said, voice thick with astonishment. "those magazine do you no justice at all."


	16. Chapter 16

**New chapter guys! Really sorry for the long wait on this one, but I hope this makes up for it! As always, a huge thank you to everyone who read and reviewed last chapter. The response is overwhelming and your feedback is what makes me want to keep going. So I hope you enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think.**

**Chapter 16:**

The Joker laughed weakly, sputtering slightly as his knees buckled and for the third time, he collapsed, nearly crashing to the hard, stone floor before Bruce caught hold of him, his powerful arm wrapping tight round the madman's frail shoulders, his other hand grasping the Joker's wrist, easing him back up.

"Try not to walk so fast." The crusader urged, even as the Joker's giggles continued feebly past his lips, and he stood bent over, fingers clinging, curling into the material of Bruce's shirt.

He shook almost violently, and Bruce's eyes rolled up, shaking his head.

He'd offered to carry the Joker to the bathroom, but the lunatic had refused, telling him he could walk "with a little support from my favorite fiend." he'd laughed. But it had been almost five minutes, and they'd barely made it more than halfway to where they were headed.

It had been three weeks since Batman brought the clown here, to his home, and against Alfred's recommendation, he'd insisted on having the butler replace all his missing teeth in that time.

Alfred had told him he was weak, and that the operation was so made more precarious, potentially even life threatening if the Joker's system found itself unable to handle the anasthetics. But, in typical fashion, the Joker had only laughed, saying the risk was worth it, and that if it really bothered the older man, he could skip out on the pain killers and just operate as is.

Alfred, of course, had found that a ludicrous suggestion, thinking the madman must be joking.

Bruce knew the Joker better than to think that at all.

But the Joker had threatened to go on a food strike if they didn't do as he wished, which, in his current, malnourished state, would have been the absolute worst thing for him. And the crusader knew how stubborn the madman could be.

He wasn't about to argue.

If Alfred thought he could handle the operation without it killing him, then the Joker would have his implants.

And, that was what had happened.

The butler had offered to put the Joker under for it, but the clown had waved him off, telling him if he really was more comfortable using an anesthetic, just to pump the Novocain into his gums and be done with it.

Alfred didn't know the Joker like Bruce did.

He didn't understand about how… unafraid he was.

How it was that fearlessness which had always frightened the vigilante most about him.

For so many reasons…

Either way, the Joker was _looking _better, from an aesthetic standpoint. His hair had finally begun growing back, though it was still thin and patchy and had only really formed a kind of transparent fuzz across the expanse of his scalp.

But he was still woefully underweight, and incredibly weak, his bruising and lacerations still pronounced and apparent.

From what had been done to him… Bruce wasn't sure if the Joker would _ever_ be as strong again as he once was.

But he said nothing of those concerns.

They were nearly there now, just a few feet more from to bathroom, when again the Joker's legs betrayed him, and again, he fell, this time his knees crashing against the floor, and the only sound to come from him was a quiet groan, slipping instantly into further mirth.

Bruce sighed.

"You should have just let me carry you." He said, once more picking the lunatic back up.

The Joker went on laughing, grasping back just hardly.

"What, and let you off guilt free?" He smiled. "Parish the thought! You don't know the amusement it brings, seeing that flash of horror across your face every time you drop me." And he laughed harder, forced a second later into harsh hacking.

Again, Bruce sighed.

He didn't know how much longer he could stand this.

"Just… let's get you to the bathroom." He relented, moving the Joker slowly and carefully along.

It would take nearly a minute longer before finally they reached it, and Bruce helped the madman to the toilet.

"Do you need me to…"

The Joker chuckled.

"No doll, I think I have it from here." He grinned, reaching out slowly and grasping to the vanity, struggling clearly to hold himself up.

The crusader frowned.

The Joker may have been acting confident, but his body language suggested anything but.

He looked still like he may shatter under the lightest of pressure, and Bruce found himself hesitant to let him go, hovering closer, hands held up and ready to grab should the lunatic again collapse.

The Joker turned, eyes slightly narrowing as he regarded the larger man.

"That means you can let me alone a moment, Bats." He spoke again, tone matter of fact, as usual, somewhat mocking.

"You're sure?" The vigilante replied, not convinced. "I can stay and help you if you…"

But the Joker just shook his head, leaning down and forward, breathing slightly harder.

"It's fine Batman. Really. I've relieved myself under greater physical impairment than this."

He once more turned, looking up now at the billionaire as he leaned farther over onto the counter.

"You can go." He repeated.

And finally, Bruce nodded.

"Okay." He said. "I'll be right outside the door though if you need me."

The Joker smirked.

"Oh, rest assured, I'll play the part of damsel in distress most expertly should the need arise!" He laughed lightly.

And Bruce just shook his head.

If ever there was an incorrigible character…

"Just try not to hurt yourself." He said, at last turning, beginning out of the room.

He heard the Joker laughing still, muttering something unintelligible as he closed the door behind him.

And he breathed out in exasperation, standing stiff, his arms folded over his chest, ears ready for what he sure was the inevitable crash when the Joker lost his balance and went tumbling to the floor.

And this all seemed so surreal.

Only more so as the days went on, and Bruce found himself sitting and _talking_ to the Joker. Actually talking to him, as though he would any other, normal human being.

But neither of them were that.

And so it made such mundane, such non-threatening activity seem all the more out of place between them, and yet, still, somehow completely expected.

Even… _right_.

The Joker was unbelievably charming.

Bruce had for a while refused to acknowledge it.

But with each new conversation they shared, it was impossible to do, as the vigilante found himself more engrossed, more engaged speaking with the madman than he ever had been with any other person.

The Joker was somehow able to hold his attention riveted, able even to make him forget the time, or the place.

It was with a bit of embarrassment Bruce had more than once come out of talking to the Joker only to find he was three, four, five hours late in starting his patrol, or getting to some event or meeting.

He didn't know what it was.

He thought at first maybe it was just that the Joker fascinated him on some level.

But… if he was being honest with himself, and he'd yet to admit this to another soul, the truth was, beyond only that, and to his surprise as much as anyone's, he and the Joker just seemed to… _get along_.

When they weren't trying to tear each other's throats out, it was almost as if they could have been…

Friends…

"Master Jason, _please_! I don't think it's wise of you to…" His attention was drawn by Alfred's urgent voice, calling from the top of the stairs, leading to the manor.

And he looked up, his stomach feeling abruptly as though it had dropped out from inside him, eyes widening as he saw…

"Look Alfred, I just need a second to talk to the old man." Jason waved the butler off, continuing down the steps. "I'll be in and out like I was never even here."

Bruce felt his heart quicken, sudden and unfamiliar panic racing through his blood.

This was bad.

This was really, really bad.

Of all the people to show up.

To show up _now_…

He stepped forward, quickly, thinking for a fleeting moment he might be capable of avoiding disaster.

"Jason, what are you…?"

"Cool it Bruce." The second Robin cut him short, putting his hands up. "I just want to talk a second."

And Bruce froze, his arms falling to his sides, tense.

Jason was already down the stairs, crossing the space towards him, coming fast.

The Joker was going to come out of the bathroom any second, and when that happened…

"You need to talk to me Bruce." Jason again interrupted his thoughts. "You need to tell me what happened. Last I heard from you, you were going after the Joker. But there's been no word of the clown since then, no admittance to that loony bin, no word on the street. You need to tell me Bruce. Is he dead? Did you even find him?"

"Jason, listen, now's not a good time." Bruce tried, again beginning towards him, reaching out.

If he could just get Jason back up into the house…

"We can talk later."

"No Bruce. I've been waiting for you to contact me. To get word to me. You knew I couldn't just let this go. But I haven't heard crap from your end since I gave you that tape. And I'm sick of waiting. What the hell happened? I _need _to know, _right now_."

"Jason, I'm serious, this really isn't a good ti…"

Suddenly there was the sound of the toilet flushing, and then the lid, slamming against the seat.

Bruce tensed, just waiting for it…

And a second following, there was a loud crash, only a moment of silence after before laughter could be heard from behind the door.

Bruce's eyes closed.

_Damn it_…

Jason's eyes moved to the door behind the crusader, confused an instant, before narrowing, moving back to Bruce.

"… What the hell was that?" He asked.

"Ohh Batsy, my dear, I, heehee, I'm afraid I've fallen and I c-hee… can't get up."

And Bruce watched as Jason's entire expression fell, setting quickly into a distinct frown.

"Bruce, you…" his hands clenched. "you tell me what's going on. You tell me _now_."

The vigilante exhaled, loudly through his nose, jaw tightening.

This was useless.

And there was nothing he could do now.

A long moment past in silence, and then finally, without a word, he turned, stepping towards the bathroom, not hesitating as he reached out, twisting the handle, throwing the door wide.

And his eyes were met with the Joker, splayed out across the floor, the curtain from the shower torn off, half fallen over him.

He giggled hysterically, looking up at Bruce with a wide, amused gaze.

"T'was a gallant effort, to stay afoot." He laughed. "But alas, my efforts end, again, only in failure."

Bruce's mouth pulled down at the corners, his hand rested, squeezing over the door's handle, and for a moment, he looked down, head shaking.

The only thing afoot was disaster, and he had no clue how he was going to avoid it.

An instant later, and he was moving into the bathroom, kneeling down in front of the Joker, peeling the curtain off of him and tossing it aside.

"Come on." He said, as though speaking to a child, taking the lunatic under his arms and picking him up the same.

The Joker swayed, unable to keep erect on his own, his hands grasping tightly to the vigilante's thick forearms.

"I feel a bit dizzy." He admitted, another, weak giggle escaping past his lips as his knees trembled beneath him.

"That's okay." Bruce reassured. "Let's get you back to the bed."

And he felt the Joker go still suddenly in his hands, everything quiet a moment, before he fell forward, his chin resting on the detective's broad shoulder, and another peel of laughter rose up from his throat.

"Oh, my, my, Batsy, darling, I do believe we have _company_."

And again, Bruce's lids slipped shut.

_Here we go_…

"What in the…" Jason spoke from behind them, voice thick and edged hard, almost trembling. "what in the _fuck_ is going on Br… Batman? What in the _fuck_?"

The Joker chuckled.

"You've always been all class, Boy Blunder." He grinned at the former Robin. "Or should I say Boy Blunder _Lite_? You never were much to compare with the first kiddo."

"Joker, stop it." Bruce finally spoke, getting his arm around the madman's painfully thin waist, holding his wrist with his other hand as at last he turned, facing his former charge.

Jason's eyes were fixed hard on the clown, unyielding and vibrating, and the tension was visible in his frame.

"I know what this looks like…" Bruce started warily.

But he wouldn't get further than that.

"What… what this _looks_ like?" Jason snapped, gaze finally shifting to the vigilante. "How about what this _is_! What the _hell_ is he doing here Batman? And…" he froze, realizing suddenly as he came out of his initial shock, Bruce wasn't in costume. He wasn't wearing a mask. His face exposed.

Realizing _he_ wasn't wearing a mask either.

And Bruce could see what had momentarily stopped him.

"He knows Jason. He's known for years." He said flatly, tiredly.

Jason's face shifted into, first, disbelief, and quickly then into anger.

"What are you… are you even _talking_ about?" He spat, teeth baring. "He… he _knows_?"

"Almost since the beginning." Bruce answered. "It doesn't matter. He doesn't care."

This drew a sharp scoff from the younger man.

"Doesn't care? Bru…" he paused, shaking his head, hands clenching. "do… do you even realize how _bad_ this is? How danger…"

"If he was going to do anything with the knowledge, he would have a long time ago Jason." Bruce cut him short. "I told you, he doesn't care."

"Oh, yeah, cause the freak show is so predictable, right? How the hell do _you _know?"

"Because he _told_ me." The crusader shot, losing his patience.

Jason's eyes went bigger.

"Oh, he _told _you. Oh, well, that's _real _reassuring. Why didn't you just say so before, _Bruce_? I guess I can call you Bruce, since we're using our real names around this fucking psycho and all."

The Joker suddenly laughed, leaning heavily on the larger man, frame shaking with the effort to stay up, even with the crusader's support.

"Well, I didn't actually _tell_ him, sweet-cheeks. He more just _assumed _I wouldn't go blabbing. But you can rest easy, as our daring dark knight assumed correctly. I have no interest in what costumes you wear to conceal your true identities." He smiled wide, almost playfully at Jason.

"What the hell's _that_ supposed to mean?" Jason shot, enraged.

But the madman only smiled broader still.

"That's _enough_!" Bruce snapped. "Enough of this. He needs to rest, so this conversation is _over_."

"No it isn't!" Jason nearly shouted. "What the hell Bruce? How long have you been keeping that lunatic here? Why didn't you turn him back over to Arkham?"

"He was in no state to go back there Jason." Bruce said, trying to keep his voice calm. "He would have been a target."

"And why the fuck do you _care_?" The former Robin argued, voice rising. "Since when does it matter so much to you what happens to this freak?"

"Since I won't let anyone die if I can help it Jason. _That's _since when!"

The Joker went on giggling, barely holding on to the vigilante as his mirth grew more.

"Heehee, l-look at you two _go_!" He laughed. "This is better than an episode of _Real Housewives of Beverly Hills_!"

"Joker…" Bruce shot, voice thick with warning.

But the madman ignored him, looking up at Jason, grinning wide.

"Though I gotta say kiddo," he went on. "that whole motif has _gotta_ go. If you wanna make it in show biz, you're gonna have to get some more original material. Not only does it smack of an uncreative mind, but also hints at a seriously unhealthy fixation on an abuser. Some, heh, some people might accuse you of wanting to get closer to such a person. Maybe even getting some sort of, oh, I don't know, _physical_ gratification out of the thought of being closer…"

The Joker had only a moment to laugh before Jason launched.

"You mother _fucker!_" He raged, and in an instant, he had his hands on the madman, tearing him from Bruce's grasp, ripping him away.

"JASON, NO!" Bruce yelled, falling forward.

But his former charge wasn't listening, and in a flash, Jason was dragging the Joker through the doorway, swinging him around and flinging him like he was nothing, violently across the space.

And the Joker went flying, crashing in a heap against his shoulder, against the stone, cold floor, crumpling instantly to his face and stomach, a mess of long, thin limbs splayed out and broken looking.

Jason wasted no time, walking in a beeline for the lunatic, fast and angry, Bruce starting after him, panic blooming in his heart.

"JASON!"

And the younger man was on the Joker in less than a second, reaching down, his hand fisting in the nap of the clown's shirt, jerking him up hard, slamming him down again to his face.

The Joker gasped out a peel of laughter, weak and barely heard, the breath from his lungs gone.

And a moment later, Jason was kneeling down beside him, flipping the smaller man onto his back, and he reached out, fingers burying in the material of the Joker's shirt, lifting his head and shoulders from the ground.

Blood gathered thick along the Joker's lower lip, where his face had crushed against the ground, splitting it wide, and he giggled helplessly as he hung limp from the boys grasp, staring up at him with wide, shining eyes.

"I'll fucking kill you, you psychotic piece of _shit_!" Jason seethed, and in a second, he had his fist reared back, smashing it a moment later against the Joker's face, and then again.

And the Joker only laughed, the sound coming more as a gargled wheeze.

"JASON, NO!" Bruce finally reached them, his hand shooting out, catching the younger man's wrist as he was about to hit the Joker again. "STOP IT!"

"Let me GO Bruce!" Jason screamed. "This fucker deserves to…"

"Jason, he can't TAKE this!" Bruce pleaded desperately, trying to make the former Robin let go. "You'll _kill_ him!"

"Good!" Jason shot, looking back at the vigilante with heated eyes.

And Bruce's expression fell.

A moment later, his head shaking.

"Jason, let him go. You think this will help anything, beating a defenseless man?"

"It'll help ME Bruce!" Jason spat.

"No, it _won't_." The crusader said.

And he was done with talking, his fingers coming down hard along Jason's wrist, pinching the nerves.

And Jason cried out, his other hand immediately releasing its grip along the Joker's shirt, the lunatic falling in a crumpled heap, still laughing softly.

And Bruce tore the former Robin away, lifting him up to his feet and pushing him away from the clown.

"I told you to stop it, _now_!" The crusader snapped. "Can't you see he's helpless? He can't fight back!"

Jason's teeth ground together, hands curling to tight fists, glaring at Bruce with defiance.

"Helpless?" He questioned, voice sharp and clipped. "Since when has that sick fuck _ever _been helpless Bruce? You've told me yourself _countless_ times never to underestimate him!"

The Joker was struggling now to push himself up to a sitting position, his hand reaching up, the back of it wiping against his nose.

Pulling it away, and the stark white of his skin was now covered crimson.

And he smiled.

Eyes shifting a moment later to the two men arguing.

"Gotta agree with the kid there Brucie!" He called, voice weak. "I'm known to be quite the handful!"

Jason's eyes moved to the Joker a moment, glaring, before going back to Bruce.

And Bruce kept his own locked on him.

Again, his head shook.

"Look at him Jason. For Christ's sake, would you calm down a minute and _look_!" And suddenly his voice dropped low, nearly a whisper. "You _know _what happened to him. He's barely begun to recover."

A long moment would pass, Jason's entire frame tensed, nearly trembling with rage as his eyes kept fixed on his former mentor, jaw set in a hard line.

And Bruce just looked back, equally unflinching.

Until Jason's gaze again shifted to the lunatic, sweeping over him, and he saw…

The Joker's face was still a mess of deep bruising, only parts of it beginning to fade, from a dark black and blue, to purple and yellowish-green. Cuts and lacerations, hardly scabbing over along his exposed forearms and hands, the top of his head, a light, green fuzz doing nothing really to cover the singed and still peeling skin of his scalp.

And he was sickeningly thin, obvious even through the loose-fitting clothes Bruce had him dressed in, a plain, grey short-sleeve, and drawstring pants, pulled tight, but still barely staying on over his hips, the pits of his arms soaked through with the sweat of hard fought effort.

His face was drawn and gaunt, the hollows of his cheeks sunken more pronounced than what was even usual. His feet were bare, and like his hands, sported vicious cuts and bruising.

And Jason knew that was only the tip of the damage really done to him. That beneath his clothes, he must have been a giant mass of contusions, blackened skin and broken bones.

And he watched then, noticing for the first time how the Joker shook.

How he _trembled _even, like he was cold, struggling viciously to stay sitting as he was, his hands planted firmly on the ground at his sides, unable to steady himself at all. Without the strength to. And it was obvious just to look at him that he couldn't even stand.

And it was bizarre to see, how he… he almost seemed as though he were trying to maintain some sort of… _dignity_, trying determinedly to sit as he was, though it was clear to do so was costing him greatly, costing all of whatever little strength he had, his head suddenly bowed down as he tried to focus.

And Jason couldn't keep the smirk from his own lips then, pulling quickly into a grin.

"Heh. You know Bruce, I guess you're right." He said, keeping his eyes on the Joker. "He does look pretty _fucked up_. Someone do a number on you, Joker?"

"Jason…" Bruce tried to warn.

The Joker glanced up at the younger man, smiling himself.

"Oh, this…?" He breathed, voice breathless as his energy sapped from him. "Nothing I'm not used to. Some boy's got a little rough with me, is all. But I've had worse."

Jason went on grinning.

"Have you? Well then, you must'a been through some pretty fucked up shit Joker, cause what happened to you… heh, I don't think I've ever seen anything quite so… brutal."

The Joker's eyes narrowed, looking at the former Robin with questioning.

"Seen?" He asked, still smiling. "Little birdy, of what _exactly _do you speak?"

"I think you know." Jason answered fast.

"Jason, stop it." Bruce tried again, feeling himself tense.

"No," the Joker's head shook. "no, I'm afraid I don't. Please, _elaborate_. What do you meanprecisely?"

Jason stared back a moment, studying the lunatic, trying to determine whether he was asking sincerely or playing some game.

But he could see from the Joker's eyes, he genuinely didn't know, and the younger man's smile grew, turning back to Bruce.

"You haven't told him!" He said, laughing.

Bruce stared back, silent.

The Joker's head cocked to the side, watching the both of them now.

"Told me?" He questioned. "Told me _what_?"

Jason grinned.

"Well, go on Bruce. Why don't you tell him? Why don't you tell your house guest about the _tape _I found?"

But still, the vigilante didn't answer, and now the Joker's expression had fallen utterly lost, brow furrowing in lines of displeasure.

"Tape?" He spoke, his eyes shifting, focusing solely on Bruce. "What does he mean Batman? What tape is he talking about?"

And Bruce's eyes closed, face turning down.

God, _damn it_.

Jason watched him only a moment more, before looking back to the Joker, smiling still.

"Well since your new best bud doesn't seem to want to _tell _you, Joker, allow _me_." He said. And suddenly he moved past the detective, towards the madman. "See, it was actually _me_ who made your rescue possible."

And now he crouched down, squatting just inches from the Joker, looking down at him.

"Cause see, I found this _tape_. Lets just say I got it off a bunch of guys who were about to auction it off to a high bidder. 'Course, I didn't pay for it or anything. I thought it had to be garbage, what they were saying was on it. Talking about how it was a film of the _Joker_, gettin' all _kinds _of nasty stuff done to him. Gotta be bullshit, I thought. But still, my curiosity was peaked. So I took it from 'em, brought it back to my place, popped it into my disc player for a fun, relaxing evening of entertainment."

He reached out, hand fisting in the Joker's shirt, tugging him closer.

"Boy, was _I _surprised, when the screen flashed on, and I saw _you_, totally helpless and weak. I could hardly believe it at first. The great Joker, completely dominated by a bunch of useless _thugs_. Getting the ever loving _shit _beat out of him by a bunch of nobodies. And then," he chuckled. "then the _kicker_. Watching as those bunch of nobodies shoved their dicks all the way up your scrawny, pale white ass, over and over and _over_ again. Fucked you _silly_, didn't they Joker? Fucked you 'till you were raw and bleeding. Just _tore_ you right up. I can only imagine what that rear end of yours looks like now. But it can't be pretty."

He pulled the Joker closer still, leaning down until his lips were beside the madman's ear.

And he whispered…

"It was too much, even for _me _to look at clown. So I brought the tape and gave it to Batman, so he could find you and _rescue _you. How else do you think he found you? I'm willin' to bet he watched that footage ten times or more, looking for clues. So, how's that make you _feel _Joker? Knowing Batman saw you like that? Knowing he saw you totally at the mercy of a group of nothings, unable to fight back. Unable to do anything but wait to _die_. How's that make you feel, you fucking _freak_."

And suddenly, he shoved the Joker away, the force enough to knock the lunatic over, onto his back.

And the Joker only stared up at him, silent, expression flat.

Jason smirked.

"Guess that finally got you to shut up, huh?" He said.

And then he turned, glancing at Bruce, stood still and quiet, his back to both of them.

"Sorry to have interrupted your little _love fest_ down here Bruce. But I guess I'll be on my way now. I'm thinking you two daisies have something to talk about, and I wouldn't want to get in the way or anything."

And without another word, he moved past the crusader, back towards the staircase, not bothering to look back as he made his way up it, disappearing a moment later through the exit, behind the old grandfather clock.

Bruce stood frozen, not moving.

But even still, he could feel the Joker's eyes, burning a hold with his gaze, right through his back.

And he didn't know why, but it was suddenly he felt like he'd done something horribly wrong, guilt at once seizing his heart, spreading fast and unforgiving through him.

Burning at his face.

And even when the Joker's voice came, soft and nearly soundless, it made him flinch, like his skin being seared by a hot prod…

Jesus, a hot prod, like they'd… they'd done to…

"Look at me." The Joker said, flat, emotionless.

But Bruce didn't turn, his hands curling tight at his sides.

And the Joker's eyes fixed on him with unblinking focus.

And he spoke again, voice still so quiet.

"Look at me Bruce."

And finally, the vigilante did, turning, unable at first to lift his face, something like shame keeping it down.

And for a long moment, the Joker only watched him, trying with everything to still his own form, shaking uncontrollably as each moment past, his strength became less and less, and sweat poured down across his chest and back, and under his arms, soaking through the thin material of his shirt, wet against his face.

The tape.

He remembered it.

Remembered it now.

How they'd had a video camera.

How they'd filmed it, all of it…

Sticking the thing in his face…

Remembered now them talking to each other, talking about how they were going to sell it…

And he shook harder still.

"You saw it?" He asked, voice trembling with him. "You saw the tape they made? Of me?"

A moment went by, Bruce saying nothing.

And then, at last, he nodded, weakly, still looking away.

He waited for the Joker to speak again, expecting something, anything.

But there came nothing.

And finally, he couldn't take it anymore, and he looked up, seeing the Joker there, turned away from him, his head turned away.

And he was staring out across the expanse of the cave, silent, his entire form shaking more obviously now, losing control of his body to weakness.

Another, long, few seconds, Bruce waited, wanting the madman to speak, to talk to him.

But he didn't.

And it was at last the crusader couldn't take it anymore, and he stepped towards the Joker, hands reaching out, face crumpling.

"I'm sorry Joker. I'm so sorry." He began, almost desperately. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm sorry for… for what happened to you. God, I…"

And his fingers brushed against the lunatics shoulder, and the Joker flinched away, as if it had burned him.

"Don't _touch_ me Bruce." He hissed, his eyes finally fixing on the larger man, staring up at him with anger.

Bruce's hand retracted, looking down at him, brow lined heavy.

"Joker, I… I'm so sorry."

And the Joker's entire face morphed into one of rage.

"Save your pity for someone who actually _needs_ it Bruce." He spat. "Because it isn't _me_." He scoffed, his head shaking in disgust. "You think what you saw makes any difference? That it _changes_ who I am? _What _I am? You think… think I'm some sort of _victim _now, _Bruce_? As if nothing like that's ever happened to me before. As if it _all _hasn't happened to me before. You have no idea. You have no idea about _anything_, you ignorant fool. No idea how little any of it actually _matters_."

Abruptly, he fell quiet.

And Bruce's arms dropped, hanging limply at his sides, staring down at the madman.

For a long moment, without words.

Watching still as the Joker's eyes at last shifted away from him, turning away, looking out ahead across the expanse of the cave, silent.

And Bruce's own gaze at last slipped to the ground.

"…You can talk to me." He said, voice quiet.

And again, he looked up.

The Joker didn't respond, didn't move.

Bruce swallowed thickly.

"If you want. You can… can talk to me. And I'll listen."

Still the Joker said nothing, and the crusader sighed, once more his eyes dropping down.

" Joker, I won't pretend to know everything you've been through. I don't know what's happened to you... I know you think, because of what I've seen, that I see you as some sort of victim. But I _don't_. I don't see you as that. As someone who's been victimized, maybe. But that's not the same thing. And Joker, you know _damn _well I would never make the mistake of thinking you were weak."

He looked up at the lunatic, brow lined heavy.

"Yes, I saw the tape those men made. I watched it a dozen times. Saw you being… tortured by them. But I never once Joker, not _once_, thought of you as being pitiful, or pathetic. I never saw you that way. I only ever thought of you as being…"

He paused, hardly able to believe the words about to come from his mouth.

But they would be spoken in truth.

Because it was something he'd always known.

Just something he'd never had the courage to admit to himself.

Something he'd never thought he would say to this man at all.

But he _would_ say it.

His fear be damned.

He would say it, because it was the only thing which right.

For the Joker's sake.

He wouldn't lie.

And he stepped forward, dropping slow to his knees, sitting just inches from the madman now, looking to him.

"being strong." He at last breathed, his voice slipping into a whisper.

His fingers curled into the material of his pants, eyes casting down.

He didn't know what the Joker would say to that.

How he would react.

It didn't really seem to matter anymore.

"What they did to you…" he paused, lids drifting closed a moment as he tried in vain to push the images from his mind. Burned there and unwanted.

What then did the Joker feel?

"Most men would have relinquished Joker." He said. "Most men would have… given in. But you never did. You never even came _close_."

And once more, he looked up, gaze falling upon the lunatic, still faced away from him, still unmoving.

"But I was scared for you Joker. I… I've never been scared for you before. I've only ever been… been scared _of_ you. Because I didn't understand you. Because I couldn't figure out any way to make you stop. Watching what those men did to you, seeing it, seeing you refuse to break, I realize now there isn't anything that ever _will_ make you stop. That will of yours, that refusal to compromise… It makes you strong Joker. But it also makes you so vulnerable. I never understood that before. I never realized how you were hurting yourself. How it hurts you most of all, being like you are. And I… I wanted to help you. I didn't want you to keep doing that to yourself."

He paused, his eyes casting away, head shaking.

"You're right, I have no idea what you've been through, what else has been done to you. I'm completely lost when it comes to you Joker. But that doesn't mean I can't help. And I want you to know, you can _ask _for help. There's no reason you can't. There's nothing stopping you except yourself. I know it doesn't change anything, that it doesn't change you or me. I'm not _trying_ to change you Joker. I just… want to understand you better maybe. And I don't want you to hurt yourself anymore."

He looked back to the Joker, the smaller man still looking away, still looking out over the dark emptiness ahead of him, like he was looking at nothing.

Still, he said nothing.

"It doesn't make you weak to talk to me." Bruce tried. "Do you understand? It won't make me think of you as less. Or regard you as less. Nothing is ever going to do that. That _tape _didn't do it. What those men did to you didn't do it."

But the Joker went on silent, unmoving as a stone, like he'd heard nothing the vigilante had said.

And finally, Bruce's eyes fell, a quiet sigh escaping past his lips.

Maybe this was useless.

Maybe he was wasting his time.

Why would the Joker want his help?

Why would he ever trust him even for it?

Why would he ever ask for it?

Even in pain as he was.

And it was so clear now, the Joker _was _in pain.

He was suffering in some unspoken, vicious way.

When the Joker had always accepted his pain, embraced it. Thought of it even as something good. Treated it as something good…

Why would he ever accept an offer to help relieve him of it?

But Bruce could hardly stand it.

Seeing this man…

Watching him suffer in this quiet desperation.

He couldn't bear it.

Not anymore.

But he was lost now, not knowing what to do.

Because the Joker was never going to let him.

The Joker was never going to ask him to…

"Can you… take me back to the bed?"

He was jarred by the soft voice, and his gaze lifted, seeing the Joker there, still with his face turned away, frozen as he had been this whole time but for the obvious tremors through his fragile looking frame.

"I'm sorry?" The crusader asked, unsure if he'd actually heard him, or it had just been something his mind imagined.

And finally, the Joker turned, looking at him, staring at him with his vivid, clear eyes, contrasting so sharply with his pale, sickly skin, glistening heavy with sweat.

And he seemed to be shaking harder.

"I don't feel very good." He said, voice nearly soundless. "I… I feel sick. I don't think I can make it to the bed on my own."

A long moment past, the Joker's eyes fixed, never leaving Bruce's own.

The vigilante looking back, just the same.

The moment loud with silence.

The Joker's face lined, his strength threatening to betray him.

He shook harder still.

"Can you help me?"

And his voice wavered just.

And that was all Bruce needed to hear.

That was all…

He nodded.

Moving towards the smaller man, reaching his arm out.

He scooped him up. Holding him against him. Tight against him.

And he said nothing as he felt the Joker's head fall forward, his hands clinging, long fingers grasping weak and unsteady along the crusader's broad shoulders, his face pressing to his chest.

Like he was trying to hide there.

Shaking like he was cold.

Bruce silent still, without words as he lifted him, lifted him fully, moving careful and slow towards the bed with him, holding him secure.

Holding him safe and strong…

Helping him like he'd asked…


	17. Chapter 17

**New chapter guys! Thank you ALL so much for your lovely feedback and reviews on the last chapter. I promise I'm going to get back to all of you personally. I hope you enjoy this one, and also to hear your thoughts as well. **

**Again, all of your support means so much to me!**

**Chapter 17:**

He moved through the foyer, quickly and quietly, being careful as he placed his keys down in the glass bowl he always kept them in, beginning already to loosen his tie.

He felt exhausted.

He wasn't sure how, but these events he found himself having to attend seemed to take more out of him physically and mentally than his patrols at night ever did.

Really, after these events, going out as Batman was more of a cathartic experience than anything.

He thought he would take a quick shower and check on the Joker before getting suited up and heading out again.

He wanted to be quiet. It was already late, and Alfred was likely in bed by now.

Bruce felt bad enough, leaving him here all day to attend to all the many matters requiring the attention of Bruce Wayne. Not to mention having to leave him with the Joker on the premises, saddling him with _that_ responsibility.

He was going to have to figure out what was going to happen once the madman became stronger. He couldn't risk leaving Alfred alone with him then.

He'd gone over this in his head countless times, the logical solution always being he would return him to Arkham. But…

But something about the thought…

The idea of the Joker being back in that place…

It didn't sit right.

It didn't feel right.

Bruce didn't know what was going on anymore, it seemed.

He'd told the Joker he didn't view him any differently, and to an extent, that was true.

He still knew him to be exceedingly dangerous and unpredictable. He'd been telling the truth when he said he didn't see him as weak, or as a victim.

But…

Something _had_ changed.

The Joker didn't seem as clear to him anymore, strange as that was.

It wasn't so obvious what was wrong… and what was right.

Not with him.

It had been so easy before, to see him as a villain.

As something vile and degenerate and _evil_.

But the Joker wasn't evil.

Bruce supposed, deep down, he'd always known that.

He'd only convinced himself of it on the surface.

But he'd always known…

Labeling the lunatic with such a black and white term, as something so simple had never been wise.

And now it just seemed… unfair.

His head shook.

He couldn't believe he was even having these thoughts.

Like he was sympathizing with the clown.

But maybe it was just par for the course.

He'd been doing a lot lately he'd never imagined he would.

Learning about the Joker was, in a way, like learning about himself.

And there again, he heard the madman's voice, saying to him over and over how the two of them were the same.

And Bruce tried still pushing that notion away.

It was just, these last, few weeks, that seemed to be becoming more and more difficult.

But he couldn't think about this now.

He was already late starting his patrol, and he didn't want to delay any furth…

He froze, halting stiff in the threshold of the kitchen entryway, eyes widening as they settled upon Alfred, sat at the dining table, cradling his face against his hand, a cold compress pushed against his mouth.

And immediately he knew something had happened. He didn't know why. He just felt it. That the Joker had…

"Alfred…?"

The butler looked up, his hand falling away, revealing a split open lip and a blackened, right eyes.

"Master Bruce!" He exclaimed. "I wasn't expecting you back for another hour…"

"Alfred, what happened?" Bruce ignored what he'd said, beginning fast towards him, hands reaching out.

And with each second passed, he could feel his heart rate quicken, hard and painful in his chest, tension beginning to seep into his limbs.

"Master Bruce," the older man began, voice calm. "please, don't be alarmed. I'm perfectly fine."

But the crusader didn't seem to be listening, reaching Alfred, his hand shooting out, taking gentle hold of the butler's jaw, turning his face to examine the damage.

He frowned deeply.

Someone had hit him.

He knew exactly what that looked like.

He'd caused it enough times himself to know.

And he felt his tension grow, falling fast into something hot, spreading quick and uncomfortable through him.

His hand fell away.

"He did this to you?" He asked, voice deceptively even, unfaltering.

Alfred blinked, hesitating a moment.

"Alfred, tell me _now_. The Joker hit you?"

And finally, the older man nodded.

"He did. But Sir, allow me to explain." He tried urgently, seeing instantly the flash of pure rage which seeped into Bruce's eyes.

And he couldn't get another word out before the vigilante had turned, moving fast for the study.

Alfred stood, beginning quickly after him.

"Master Bruce, please! The error was mine! He was attempting to walk and I foolishly thought he would desire my assistance. He insisted he didn't, but I could see him struggling and I… I took hold of him as he began to fall. It upset him and he struck my face. But I was warned Sir, I was…"

Bruce wasn't slowing, his pace only increasing as he neared the study, Alfred nearly having to run to keep up with him.

And he felt his anxiety grow as they drew closer, and he knew the crusader had ill-intentions in him.

He knew that look on Bruce well enough.

"Sir, I _implore _you not to do anything rash! Remember the Joker is in an extremely weakened state and not in any position to defend himself! You may severely injure him if you… Sir, if you hit him… Bruce, _pleas_e! You'll only regret your actions if you strike him in any way. He's too fragile now to take any sort of real punishment!"

And finally Bruce stopped, looking back over his shoulder, Alfred halting only a few feet behind.

"Master Bruce, please. It was my fault…"

The vigilante's mouth pulled down, severe at the corners.

"No." He said, voice hard and flat. "It's mine. For thinking it was safe to leave you alone with that lunatic."

And without another word, he turned, stepping quickly through the study, towards the grandfather clock.

And Alfred could only watch helplessly as he moved the hands, as the clock came open from the wall, revealing the passageway down to the cave. And he knew there was nothing he could do to stop the younger man now, though he'd tried desperately.

Because he knew this would only end in something horrible. Something tragic even.

Bruce may not have been able to see it.

But he could.

The admiration in the Joker's eyes when he looked upon the crusader.

And what lately he'd seen grow to trust.

The Joker had been relaxing around Bruce.

Whatever guard he'd had previously up around him, it had begun to slip away.

Only around Bruce.

He'd begun to accept the vigilante's sincerity in wanting to help him.

Begun allowing that help.

If he was hurt now…

And there was nothing Alfred could do then, watching as Bruce disappeared through the entry, vanishing into the caves darkness, out of his view…

And he turned, his eyes closing, waiting in dread at what violence he would hear from below…

Fearful most of all for what consequences this would reap his former charge.

/

The Joker's eyes fixed determinedly ahead, staring towards no place in particular, forcing himself to stay erect, his back straight as he sat along the stone floor.

His frame shook visibly, but he paid it no mind, nor any thought to the thick sweat he could feel, trickling cold and uncomfortable down his back and chest, forming heavy within the pits of his arms and across his forehead, droplets slipping down from his hairline, across his temples.

He'd been sitting here like this he was sure at least an hour. Though time to him had always been something abstract and unsure. It never had been something he could grasp with any clarity. Seconds into minutes. Minutes into hours. Hours into days, and years, and decades.

Time didn't matter.

Another attempt at control.

People measuring their lives in the name of preparedness, in the hope it may give them some modicum of say in what becomes of them in the end.

It gave them nothing.

A useless exercise in futility.

Hopelessness born of false hope.

He knew well what that was.

As he knew the reality of his own weakness.

He was a man.

The exhaustion of his body served only to remind him of this.

It betrayed his mind, he supposed, as his mind betrayed his body.

Neither had ever conspired to work in tandem.

When his thoughts consisted of abilities his frame had not the strength to execute.

What you desired could only ever push you so far.

And so far, he hadn't been able to stand for more than a few seconds at a time, before his legs gave way beneath him, and he crumpled like some broken toy to the ground.

He would have been embarrassed, if he knew what embarrassment was.

He supposed you had to feel something like shame before you could feel humiliation.

And regret was something unfamiliar to him.

He felt nothing of that.

Only desire.

Only this need to stand…

To walk…

He didn't know why.

But he'd never been one to dwell on those sorts of questions.

Doubting yourself never accomplished a thing. And if man's goal was to imitate nature, he liked to think of himself as her truest and most uncompromising flatterer.

Nature never bothered with introspection.

And so neither would he.

He wanted to stand though.

That was all he knew.

He wanted to make this pathetic shell of a vessel containing his most brilliant mind do exactly what he imagined it capable of.

He supposed sitting up was in itself a kind of accomplishment, considering the waves of dizziness which assaulted him every, few moments.

He'd been sure numerous times he would vomit.

But all that had come with each wretch had been rivulets of his thick, white saliva, hanging precariously off his lower lip before snapping off, sinking and drying along his light blue pants. What was this outfit he was wearing called?

Hospital scrubs.

It was like what he had to wear at Arkham.

So unfashionable.

But then, the Bat never had had much sense in that department.

As soon as he got out of here, he was going to rob a bank and use the money to buy the bestest, prettiest suit it could afford.

And then he was going to kill those men.

He was going to find them, and kill them.

Yes he was indeed.

Because that would be fun.

To see the shock of their expressions before they died. Their lives ended at the hands of a man who's life they'd nearly ended themselves.

Never leave a mark alive. That was his motto.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips at the thought.

Well, not really. He'd left plenty living himself. But wasn't that just what made it more exciting? You never knew when one of those little bastards was going to come back to get you.

And again, like countless attempts before, he tried pushing himself to his feet, shaking viciously as he did.

He sat, crouched with his palms, flat against the floor a moment, head hanging as he tried to focus.

If he could keep the room from spinning a moment, he might be able to stay up without falling.

A few, long seconds more, his lids slipped shut, waiting.

And then finally, he pushed himself straight, ignoring the buckling sensation through his knees as he stood, the way his body wavered and seemed to sway.

His hands tightened to fists, stiffening himself tense, eyes still closed, head bowed.

He could do this.

He knew he could.

He knew he…

His lids opened, hearing the footfall down the stone steps, and his head lifted, seeing Batman, descending quickly, eyes locked straight on him.

And a wide grin spread across the madman's lips, staring back, nearly losing concentration and falling to the ground, his attention was so taken whenever the vigilante appeared.

"Bats!" He greeted excitedly. "You've arrived just in time! See? I'm standing! I promise, in short order, I'll be walking, and you won't even have to carry me to the restroom anymore. Just think! Soon, I'll be back, fit as a fiddle, and what fun we'll have then, eh? You and I, gallivanting across rooftops, accompanied by the light of the moon and the glistening of late night office workers, their windows lit by overhead fluorescents! Unaware, of course, of the drama playing out above them! They aren't a part of our _game_ Darling. But you already know that."

He laughed lightly, gaze following as the crusader began towards him, stride long and fluid.

And he recognized the approach like the brightest of his minds often faded memories, the threat of self-righteous anger. A desire like his. Uncontrolled and thrived in.

Batman had something on his mind.

And the Joker's smile never faltered, even as his saw the displeasure, etched deep across the vigilante's features, as his pace quickened towards him, and his form promised violence.

He flinched only just in the instant before Bruce reared his arm back, coming into the madman's range, and in the flash of a moment, his hand came cutting across, thick, hard knuckles racking with power across the Joker's face.

And the Joker collapsed, so fast it seemed the floor had jumped up to hit him, his lip coming open as he was falling, blood exploding from his nose the same.

And the dizziness returned tenfold, and he couldn't really see anymore.

Bats had always been so strong…

And there wasn't a chance even for the gurgled chuckles to slip from his throat, before the larger man had bent down, thick fingers burying hard in the material of the lunatic's dirtied shirt, jerking him up like some rag doll. And the Joker felt the force of his blow again, as he slapped him across the mouth, backhanding him once more after that. And bitter blood tasted across his tongue, slipping down his throat from the gashes along the inside of his cheeks.

He could hear Bruce talking now, but the words couldn't be made out. The ringing in his ears too loud.

Couldn't see for how quickly everything spun, and the inadvertent tears in his eyes, from the stinging through his nose, up into his temples.

Again there was the sensation of falling, feeling the grip along him let go, and he crashed again to the ground, flat against his back, legs folded clumsily beneath him.

And Bruce's voice began to clear, his words reaching the Joker's mind now as he stood over him, face twisted in familiar disgust.

The Joker blinked, trying better to clear his still rotating vision.

"You bastard!" The vigilante roared, voice loud and echoing through the cave. "This is what you do? I treat you with dignity! I treat you like a God damned _human being_, and all you can do is spit in the face of it?"

Suddenly he was crouching down, taking the Joker again by the shirt, jerking him up. Bringing him close.

"I told you not to lay your hands on him! I told you not to hurt him!"

And finally the madman smiled, just barely as Bruce jerked him again, shaking him hard.

"He laid his hands on me first, Bats." He said, voice betraying the amusement across his features. "I told him not to…"

He was cut short with another, sharp slap.

"And I told you if you did _anything_ to hurt him, I would make you pay." Bruce seethed, teeth bearing.

The Joker's tongue shot out, swiping over his bloodied lips, swallowing the taste back down, even as it made him nauseas.

He stared unflinching up at the larger man, silent.

"Is this what you want Joker?" Bruce spat. "You want me to treat you like this? Like an animal? Like you're worth _nothing_?"

And it was finally the smiled faded completely from the lunatic's face, his eyes hardening into something unresponsive.

"Yeah, Bruce." He said dryly. "This is _exactly_ how I want you to treat me. And you know what? It's exactly how _you_ want to treat me too. Oh it makes you feel _good_, doesn't it, Brucie? Justifying to yourself your own violence. You never could just accept this is what you are. You have to have a reason for it. Isn't that right? Always a _reason_."

And again, Bruce backhanded him, snapping his head fully away.

And the Joker didn't react beyond his low and quiet mirth.

The vigilante growled, throwing him back down and straightening.

"You want to be treated like an animal?" He hissed. "Then fine, I'll treat you like an animal. I'll treat you like you treat everyone else! Like you don't _matter_!"

"Oh, I'm _wounded_ Bruce." The Joker sneered. "Here I was, thinking my life held some _value_ in the grand scheme of it all!" And suddenly he barked out a sharp laugh. "As you've seen for _yourself_! Heh. You think you're treating me with kid gloves is going to instill in me some absurd notion I should be afforded inherent _rights_? Please dear, don't make me laugh! There's a difference, you understand, between being superior and being important. None of us are the latter. Only a few of us are the former. I thought maybe _you_ were among that few, but lately, I've had cause to reconsider my _position_."

Bruce frowned deeply.

"And that's what's wrong with you." He said, voice suddenly quiet. "How can you expect me to treat you with respect when you can't even treat yourself with it?"

The Joker grinned.

"Fear is a form of respect sweets. And you're very much afraid of what _I'll _do. I don't have to regard myself as some shining beacon of sanctity to garner _anyone's_ consideration."

For a long moment, Bruce said nothing, falling silent as he glared down at the madman.

Until finally his head cocked to the side, mouth setting in a hard line.

"Then I guess you won't mind this." He said, voice settling into the cold harshness he used out on the streets.

And without further warning, he reached down, taking hold of the smaller man, and in one, swift motion, flipped him over, onto his stomach.

And the Joker had no time to react, to even realize what was happening before he felt Bruce tearing his shirt wide, ripping it open down the center and yanking it out from underneath him, leaving his torso bare in a matter of seconds.

No time to react still as he felt the vigilante's broad hands, thick fingers digging into the waistband of his pants and underwear, yanking the two articles down roughly, past his thighs, down to his ankles. Jerking them off completely a second following, leaving the madman completely naked.

"You won't mind if I leave you the way I found you, isn't that right Joker?" He went on. "If you don't think you deserve _more_."

It had all happened so quickly, the Joker was only just beginning to realize he'd been stripped, the cold air of the cave assaulting his battered skin.

He began pushing himself up, the effort unreasonably difficult, arms shaking with the weight he placed on them.

And an unintentional whelp came from his throat as Bruce suddenly put his foot against his shoulder, pushing him over onto his back.

The vigilante kept his eyes fixed on the Joker's face, trying to ignore the still vicious bruising across the expanse of his body, the lacerations and burn marks, only just healing and beginning to scar, some still kept bandaged tight from infection.

Kept his eyes away from the older scars, from before all this had happened. Some Bruce knew where they'd come from.

Most, he knew nothing at all.

The lashes along his back had been most disturbing of all to the larger man, and he kept hearing over and over in his mind, the Joker telling him he had no idea what he'd been through, telling him it all had been done before.

Bruce didn't want to know now.

He didn't want to hear what this madman had already endured.

He tried in that moment to tell himself he didn't care.

But his eyes fixing away from the evidence of the lunatic's torture refuted the ridiculous notion.

He kept his expression stoic.

And his anger kept him from giving this up.

"You're being here is a _privilege_ to you Joker." He said, now calm. "A privilege you've now abused, and spat in the face of. I'll treat you only as well as you allow me to. And right now, you aren't allowing me to treat you any better than this."

The Joker smiled at him, though the expression held no real amusement, his eyes gleaming with unspoken rage.

"So what's next, doll-face? You gonna beat me with a metal stick and poke me with a cattle prod? Same as those _fine_ gentlemen you _rescued_ me from? This is how they started it, ya know. Humiliation before fear. That's what they _tried_."

And finally a look of discomfort came over Bruce's face, and for a moment, he said nothing.

And the Joker forced his lips into a grin, his teeth smeared with his own blood.

Nothing happy there.

"You don't appreciate what I give you, you don't get to have it." Finally the crusader spoke, still holding the Joker's clothes in his hands. "You're in my home now, under my rules. You break them, and you pay the consequences. You touch Alfred again, and you're going back to Arkham. As you are. And I promise you now, what they do to you there will be far worse than anything I can."

"Ohhh, Bat's, you've just got me _shaking _with _terror_." The clown mocked, voice edged hard and disgusted.

And Bruce felt his teeth clench, trying to keep the tension from his face.

A moment passing in silence, both men staring unflinching back at the other.

Until the crusader's head shook.

"I'm going out." He finally spoke flatly.

And without another word, he began to turn, to head back for the stairs.

"Oh, don't be gone _too_ long darling!" The Joker called after him, tone biting. "Wouldn't want anything to happen to that _man servant_ of yours while you're _away_."

And that was all it took.

Bruce turned, making for the madman, on him quicker than the Joker could even begin to react. His hand reached out, clamping with crushing pressure over the frail wrist, jerking him up.

The lunatic hung unresponsively from his fingers, eyes staring, unblinking at the vigilante, saying nothing.

Bruce could feel the tremors through his frame, and he knew not from fear, but physical weakness, and he was sure in that moment he'd never been more frustrated with his inability to _scare_ this man.

His face twisted in a threatening glare, and the Joker's own remained stoic, eyes vibrating the only thing to give away his anger.

"So what's it gonna be Bruce?" He finally spoke after a long, few seconds, voice clipped. "You gonna hit me again? Because that's _so _affective, right? Maybe if for quenching that sadist's streak you're always trying so hard to hide from the world. Always looking for an excuse to let it go, huh, _Brucie_? Because having a _reason_ to hurt people makes you so much better than the rest of us, right? That being what you _are_ not reason _enough_."

Bruce sneered, eyes narrowing, fingers gripping harder, watching the smaller man's features closely.

Until he saw it, the barely visible lines of stress, etching across the Joker's pale, thin face, telling so clearly he _felt _the pain.

Fingers gripped tighter still, and the lines grew more pronounced, and tighter again, threatening to crush the fragile bones beneath.

But no sound ever passed from the Joker's lips, his gaze never flinching, eyes never driven away, even as fissures of agony cracked across his stony expression, and his body trembled harder, sweat heavy across his brow.

There was no fear there.

Only the limits of his body.

His mind's determination betrayed by it.

He couldn't hide how much this was hurting him, even ifhe didn't care that it was.

And when Bruce could feel the bones underneath his fingers, ready to snap, just the slightest pressure more to do it, finally, he shoved the Joker away, back to the ground, and he straightened, glaring down at the madman with twisted features, regarding him a long moment.

The Joker stared back, and if he felt the need to rub along his already bruising wrist, he did no such thing, still as his own eyes, pinning the crusader hard.

And Bruce felt something unpleasant stir inside, something unwanted… like disappointment.

And he turned away, again beginning towards the stairs.

"Stay away from Alfred." He spoke as he went, voice low and dark.

And the Joker answered behind him, nearly too soft to hear…

"I'll stay away from him, if he stays away from me."

But this time, Bruce just kept walking, saying nothing else as he continued out of the cave. Thinking only to himself…

"_Alright Joker, if that's the way you want it_…"

/

It wasn't until well past six in the morning that he finally returned home, the sun having just started to peak over the city horizon, washing it aglow in hazy orange.

It was during those moments Bruce always thought the city looked most beautiful. When it seemed to defy the ugliness he saw every night on the streets. And he thought sometimes, allowed himself to think, maybe it was his own actions which had cast the place in a brighter light. Which had, for that brief time, brought about a better existence for it.

Even though that made no sense.

Even if his brains analytical drive told him no. It was just the sun, the light of it, reflecting off the towers of steel and glass and concrete.

Even with that…

Sometimes, he still liked to think it.

Sometimes he still liked to hope.

To believe not everything he did was in vain.

That not everything was like how…

How _he _said it was.

He pulled in through the caves entrance, moving slow and steady down the ramp, towards the docking platform, the car rumbling loud as it finally came to a halt, and he cut the engine, the sound whirring and echoing off the cavernous walls as it powered down.

The top slid open, and in one, easy motion, the vigilante leapt from the cabin, lading nearly soundless on the ground beneath, sweeping his cape back as he began down the steps, towards the main landing, housing his computers and research equipment.

Gordon had informed him of a spree of recent murders which had broken out over the last week. Someone was killing prostitutes, dumping their dead bodies on the streets of uptown Gotham for all the upper class citizens to see.

And he knew he had to get to work on that.

But even as he neared the consoles, already a list of suspects running through his head, his concentration seemed to falter.

His mind was filled with thoughts of the Joker.

As it had been all night.

He couldn't get the lunatic from his head.

What he'd said to him earlier. The look across his face.

What he'd been denying to himself all these hours it made him feel.

He kept telling himself the madman had deserved it.

That he needed to be shown his usual antics weren't going to be to tolerated. Not even close.

It was for the Joker's own good, he'd reasoned, his own safety, as well as Alfred's.

On some level, Bruce knew that to be true.

He'd done it because he'd _had _to.

But the feeling he'd gotten, overpowering the clown, how weak the madman had felt hanging from his fists, and as he'd racked his hand back across his face, how easily he hurt him…

The way he'd so handily and without effort stripped the Joker of his clothes, and so stripped him of what little dignity he had left, if he had any at all. Reducing him to a naked and helpless heap of a man, broken and pitiful as he wallowed on the ground, too weak even to pick himself up.

The feeling Bruce had gotten in those minutes…

The gratification…

He frowned deeply, thinking of it, the Joker's words bouncing unrelentingly through his brain…

_Maybe if for quenching that sadist's streak you're always trying so hard to hide from the world. Always looking for an excuse to let it go, huh, _Brucie_? Because having a reason to hurt people makes you so much better than the rest of us, right? That being what you _are _not reason enough_.

He loathed the clown's ability to read people.

To read _him_.

When he tried so hard to cut every aspect of his humanity off from the world.

To be something without emotion.

The Joker saw him still.

And Bruce felt himself grow uneasy, sick even with the notion that he was doing this all out of some sort of guilt, some sort of need to redeem himself from the satisfaction he'd always gained in beating the hell out of a man too mentally ill to even take care of himself.

He wanted to help the Joker.

But he wasn't sure now if he wanted to help him because, ultimately, it felt like helping himself.

He'd been angry when he left.

Vengefully mad.

He'd told Alfred to stay out of the cave. To not go down under any circumstances.

Alfred had questioned this order, asking him what should happen if the Joker fell ill and needed help.

But Bruce had been explicit, telling him no, telling him the lunatic was dangerous, and he didn't want Alfred risking his own well being to aid him.

Still, Alfred had seemed unsure, trying to reason with the crusader that the Joker could hardly qualify as dangerous now. That he was too frail even to really hold himself up, trying further to explain that despite the clown striking him in the face, he hadn't done any real, significant damage, again trying to argue that it had anyway been his own fault. That the Joker had been agitated and in a bad state, and he should have honored the younger man's desire to not in that moment be touched.

Bruce hadn't been hearing it, determined to punish the Joker.

At first, he'd told himself, for betraying his trust and generosity.

But as the hours past since their altercation, he realized more and more, it was really to punish the Joker for making him feel what he had.

Making him want to hurt someone who couldn't fight back.

And the self-loathing which came with such desires.

He sighed, trying to push all this from his mind as he pulled his cowl back off his head, pushing his fingers through his damp and matted hair.

The place seemed unusually quiet, for some reason.

It was a moment later, he realized what that reason was.

The Joker by now would usually be calling out to him, his voice heard, greeting him with feverish excitement from his bed, located on the level just a ways below this one.

But there came no such greeting now, the madman's voice not sounding, not echoing through the space.

The vigilante could hear nothing even, no noise from below at all to indicate the presence of another soul in this place.

And he felt himself tighten, unwanted, unpleasant dread curling its way up through the pit of his stomach.

His mind at once filled with the terrible thought that the lunatic had somehow escaped.

The worse thought still that maybe he'd somehow gotten up into the manor and…

And dread turned fast to panic, gripping hard, and he made straight for the staircase leading down to the medical wing, stride quickening, until he was practically running for it, pushing down the steps with painful urgency.

"Joker!" He called, panic doubling as his eyes fell across the empty cot. "Joker, where are…?"

And he froze, his gaze stopping, staring for a moment wide at the crumpled heap on the ground.

The same place he'd left him, nine hours earlier.

The Joker, lying there, lying there the same, naked.

Only he was over on his side now, his knees brought up to his chest, arms wrapped loose and weak around them, holding to them.

He was shaking…

No…

He was…

He was trembling…

Violently, he was trembling.

Tremors so strong through him, he couldn't control them at all.

Like the type Bruce had come across countless times in people, suffering overwhelming fear, an emotional reaction…

Or physical.

Men and woman and children he'd pulled out of the harbor, out of ice cold water, and they couldn't stop shaking. Hypothermia setting in.

The Joker wasn't afraid.

He was freezing.

Shit…

Shit, shit, shit, shit…

In a flash, Bruce was making for him, breaking into a run as he saw more clearly how viciously the madman's frame shuttered.

Coming upon him, and he dropped down to his knees, reaching out, hands falling across the Joker's narrow, bony shoulders.

"Joker?" He called his name urgently, and with his hands on him now, he could feel more how hard he shook, and he could hear now the near inaudible laughter, barely hissing past the Joker's pale lips, broken and tumultuous.

"Joker, oh Christ…" he turned the smaller man towards him.

And the Joker stared back, mouth twitching as it pulled up into a frail smile, laughter still coming in fracture bits past his teeth.

Bruce pushed his arm underneath his shoulders, cradling his back as he lifted him slowly and carefully up, and the Joker fell limp against him, still giggling, just barely, his head falling over onto the larger man's shoulder.

"W-w-well… h-h… here we are ag-g-g…gain my d-dear." The Joker stammered badly, words broken up between his mirth. "B-bb… back to ss-ss… sq-square o-o-one, eh?"

"Don't talk." Bruce said, his hands beginning to rub vigorously up and down his skinny arms, trying desperately to warm him.

The Joker just sputtered, more laughter past his lips.

Oh Jesus, what had he done? Bruce thought despairingly. What the hell had he done?

His arms wrapped tight around the Joker's body, pulling him flush against his chest, hands still rubbing, now across his back.

"I c-c… can't ss… s-stop sh-sh… shak-king…" the Joker stuttered, half giggling, voice unsteady as he was.

"It's okay." Bruce replied, holding the madman harder still. "It's okay."

God _damn it_, how could he have been so irresponsible?

How could he have not thought of this happening?

The cave was drafty, cold air blowing through it all day. Even with the heaters on, the place was hard to keep warm due to its vastness.

And the Joker had no fat on him.

Nothing to protect him from it.

He had barely more than skin covering his bones.

Bruce had thought foolishly the lunatic would somehow manage to pull himself back to his bed, to get under the covers to keep warm.

But it was all too obvious now he hadn't had the strength to do that, and so he'd just remained here, where Bruce had left him, lying against the stone floor, exposed completely for nine straight hours.

God _damn _his own stupidity.

He had to get the Joker warm, and he had to do it fast, before he fell into hypothermia. If he wasn't there already.

His mind raced with what to do.

And he thought suddenly, the only solution he could find…

"Come on." He said, pulling his cape around, draping it over the clown's bare form.

And a moment later, he had his other arm underneath the Joker's legs, across the bend in his knees, and he was standing with him, lifting him fully from the ground, holding him securely against his chest.

And he felt the Joker's trembling fingers, burying in the material stretched across his armor, grasping it weakly, his head falling forward against his shoulder.

The crusader didn't hesitate, beginning fast for the staircase leading up to the manor, ascending them quickly as he could.

Reaching the top, and he paused only a moment to press in the code, the entrance opening up a moment later as the old grandfather clock moved out of place.

And Bruce stepped through, making his way quickly through the study, and out, into the hallway, making then for the foyer, for the main staircase leading up to the second floor.

Reaching it, and it was then Alfred came out from one of the house's many lounge areas, carrying a pan and broom.

His eyes grew immediately wide, expression falling into shock.

"Master Bruce, what in the world…"

"Alfred, I need you to draw a hot bath as quickly as possible. Up in the master bedroom. Hurry."

"Sir, if I may, what exactly is going on?" The butler questioned again, utterly confused as his eyes fell over the shivering lunatic in the crusader's arms. "What's happened?"

"He's caught cold down there Alfred." Bruce explained, not stopping, beginning now up the stairs. "He might my hypothermic. We have to get him into warm water and raise his temperature fast."

"My word, how did…" the butler began up after them.

"It's my fault." Bruce said. "I… I left him down there without any clothes, on the floor. The draft must have…"

"You _what_ Sir?" Alfred exclaimed, taken aback.

"I was _angry_." Bruce shot, his frustration with himself growing. "I wanted to punish him for… for what he did to you. It was idiotic of me."

"Yes Master Bruce, it was." The older man agreed flatly, quickening his stride up the stairs, pushing ahead.

Bruce frowned.

Alfred had never been one to pull his punches. He was honest, and the crusader had always appreciated that.

But right now, it didn't feel very good, to have his own stupidity confirmed to him by a man he trusted above everyone else.

Already Alfred had reached the top of the stairs and was beginning quickly for the master bedroom, disappearing through the double doors a moment later, Bruce close on his heels.

The Joker was still giggling weakly against him. But he seemed out of it, like he wasn't quite aware of where he was or what was happening, his body still convulsing and trembling violently.

And Bruce's hand came up, cradling the back of the lunatic's head softly.

"I'm sorry Joker." He whispered, moving in to his bedroom.

He could hear Alfred had already begun running the water in the bath.

"I'm so sorry."


	18. Chapter 18

**New chapter guys! Again, all of your support has been phenomenal and I can't thank you enough. Hope you continue to enjoy and I'd love to hear from all of you again! **

**Here we go!**

**Chapter 18:**

Alfred stood back, watching with intent eyes as Bruce lowered the Joker onto the floor, still with the cape wrapped tight around him.

"Make sure his body temperature is brought back to normal before putting him in the wat…"

"I _know_!" Bruce spat in frustration, cutting the butler short.

And Alfred fell silent as the crusader began vigorously to rub his thermal lined cape along the Joker's body, trying desperately to warm him up.

"Can you bring me some blankets? The thickest quilts you can find." He said after a moment.

Alfred nodded, silently disappearing out of the bathroom, returning only a minute later carrying two, large covers, bringing them over to the crusader.

He knelt, laying the blankets flat, assisting as Bruce lifted the Joker up, placing him carefully along the quilts. And he helped to wrap the still trembling lunatic tight inside them. Standing and stepping back once they had him adequately covered, watching as Bruce again began rubbing the soft, warm material along the Joker's frame.

For a long while, he did this, until the madman's shivering had lessened. And he uncovered the blankets and cape from around him, bringing him back up, tight in his arms, rubbing up and down the lunatic's arms, along his back as he pressed him close against himself.

And like it always was whenever his gaze fell upon the smaller man's exposed form, the butler found himself consumed with an unwanted sickness. The unease which came with glimpsing something inherently wrong.

The Joker had been abused.

If those aged and gnarled lacerations all across his back were any indication. And the numerous burn marks along his torso and legs, scar tissue older than anything he'd received while the captive of Dr. Finius and his men.

Bruce had deduced they couldn't be self-inflicted, given their placement, the extent of their fading telling further they'd been seared into the Joker's skin years ago.

Someone, at some point, had done this to the madman.

Those marks across his back and legs had been caused by some kind of whip. But something not regular, given the way the lashes ploomed at the ends, spreading out and becoming twisted. Whatever he'd been whipped with, it had had some kind of prongs at the tip. Something to hook and tear.

Alfred could feel himself growing ill every time his eyes caught sight of it, and the burn marks, numerous of them caused, it appeared, by cigarettes being held to the skin, round and focused, or some other, concentrated source of heat. Maybe matches or a lighter.

Vile as the lunatic's actions had been, and as many people the butler knew would doubtless insist he'd deserved whatever cruelty he'd been subjected to, Alfred still knew in his heart, everything about it was wrong.

Everything about it was repulsive.

And who was to say the Joker hadn't been driven to such madness in result of the very torture he'd endured?

Cruelty begot cruelty.

That was something Alfred understood well of human nature.

Maybe it was something the Joker understood too.

But he'd spoken nothing to either him or Bruce about what had happened to him.

Not at the hands of Finius and his men, and not at the hands of whoever had before had him at their mercy.

And Alfred had the feeling, from the interaction he'd had with this troubled young man, he would despise above everyone else being made excuses for.

The butler wasn't sure he would call them excuses though.

Maybe just reasons.

But perhaps the Joker would despise that just as greatly.

He seemed so much to want to defy reason.

To abandon it and have no definition.

No way to be boxed in or explained.

Maybe it was the thought he could be free from those things which then made the things he did tolerable in his own mind.

If he could believe himself truly beyond the limits of the laws and rules we governed ourselves by, if he could believe himself as beyond those things as nature herself…

Maybe that was his own way of justifying it to himself.

By believing he needed no justification at all.

Giving reason and excuse and explanation to the things he did then…

It jeopardized his ability to be limitless.

Because it suggested then it had been the actions of others which controlled his very own.

Not very limitless at all.

Alfred had little doubt in his mind the Joker might fly into a murderous rage if he ever were to speak these theories to the lunatic.

Or maybe he would just laugh, and be unbothered as he seemed to be by everything.

Either way, the butler had no real desire to find out.

Maybe he was himself being too arrogant, thinking he'd broken the Joker down into a neat, little box of psychoanalysis, when the most highly regarded trained professionals had, for years, been unable to do that very thing.

It was simply what Alfred saw, when he looked at the clown.

He might be correct.

He might be totally wrong.

But what he couldn't push from his mind, what he had no questions over whatever, was that the Joker was indeed a tragic figure.

A broken figure.

Whether what had been done to him by others had been the thing to break him first of all or not, the fact remained, he _was_ broken.

He was terribly, terribly damaged.

And intelligent as the madman might be, as eerily capable as he was of reading and gleaning what lay within the hearts and minds of others, he seemed incapable of understanding or seeing this one, very glaring aspect of himself.

The Joker didn't believe there was a thing wrong with him.

But there very much was.

There was _so _much wrong with him.

It was only testament to his own illness that he couldn't see it, in spite of his very obvious brilliance.

And maybe that was what was most tragic of all.

That someone so very bright could in turn be so addled with sickness of the mind.

Perhaps, Alfred thought, that was the very joke the Joker so constantly went on about.

This cruel trick nature seemed to be playing on all of them.

Giving some great gift, only to take it away through some vicious curse, or unavoidable fate.

"Do you wish for me to remain, Master Bruce?" Alfred spoke aloud, watching as the vigilante began carefully to stand, still holding the Joker tight against his chest, handling him with the delicacy one might imagine should be afforded to a priceless, porcelain statue.

"You don't have to." Bruce replied.

And he was cradling the back of the Joker's head now, and Alfred could hear him speaking in a whisper to him.

"You'll be okay in a minute." He was saying. "You'll feel better in a minute."

The butler frowned slightly.

Bruce cared about him.

Alfred had gleaned such several weeks back. Before he'd even found the Joker and rescued him. He'd realized for the first time how much Bruce actually _felt _towards the lunatic.

He supposed it was the first time Bruce himself had realized it to.

But it worried Alfred.

It was why he'd been so worried when the Joker had struck him, knowing Bruce's reaction would be pure rage.

Knowing it would only lead his former charge down a path of regret and guilt.

It scared Alfred when Bruce cared about someone.

Because he always cared so _deeply_.

So wholly.

And how often that led to himself being so terribly, terribly hurt.

How he was hurting now.

And the older man could barely stand to see it.

Maybe he would excuse himself then.

And he did.

But Bruce didn't even notice as the butler stepped quietly out of the room, his concentration fully on the man in his arms.

And he tried to ignore the constriction he felt suddenly in his throat, the stinging in the backs of his eyes as he stared down at the Joker, the lunatic's head turned weakly in towards him, a nearly soundless hiss past his barely upturned lips, his feeble laughter as he continued to shake.

God, what the hell had he _done_?

How could he have been so damned _stupid_?

Wasn't this the very thing he'd been trying to protect the Joker from?

Hadn't he been trying to help this man? Trying to take care of him, because he understood now the Joker couldn't take care of himself?

He'd told the lunatic he wasn't trying to change him, and yet, the moment the Joker had acted as he knew him to be, he'd used it as some sort of excuse to punish him, to make him pay for it.

It was his own damn fault.

He should have told Alfred to stay away.

He knew the Joker couldn't bear to have the butler around. Had hardly even begun to accept the vigilante's assistance.

The Joker…

The Joker didn't see anyone else in any role of significance to him.

They were all just inconsequential.

Just… incidental.

Bruce didn't know why that didn't make him angry anymore.

Maybe because… because it seemed to him like the Joker didn't view himself any better.

He sure as hell didn't treat himself any better.

Bruce had left him there on the floor of the cave, and in those nine hours, it seemed the madman hadn't even attempted to get back to the bed. Hadn't even tried to get back under the covers.

He must have at some point felt the chill coming over him. Must have felt it setting in.

But he'd just stayed there, until he'd been freezing half to death.

Who knew for how many hours he'd been in that state.

Maybe he'd tried pulling himself back onto the cot, but there was nothing to indicate it.

"Come on…" the crusader spoke quietly, lifting the Joker over the lip of the tub, beginning slowly and carefully to lower him into the warm water, doing so only when he'd felt the madman's temperature had begun to return to normal.

The moment the clown's back touched down along the surface, and his eyes went slightly bigger, a hushed gasp pulling past his lips. Almost like it had hurt him.

And for an instant, Bruce hesitated, watching the Joker with concern.

But a moment later, the smaller man seemed to relax.

And his eyes grew more alert as the crusader lowered him the rest of the way into the water.

Feeling him touch down, Bruce quickly brought a thick hand up, supporting the back of the Joker's head against his palm, his other hand pressing gently to the lunatic's chest and easing him back until he was lying against the bath's back wall.

"Just relax." He said.

The Joker was still shaking, his eyes by the second growing more clear and aware.

And he watched Bruce, looking up at him with a kind of bizarre confusion, like he wasn't sure what was happening, or where he was.

"… B-Bruce…?" he began, voice wavering heavy and weak.

"Shhh," the vigilante shushed him. "you just need to stay calm."

And the Joker's gaze continued to fix on him, focused hard, like he was trying determinedly to see something he thought he should be able to.

"You starting to warm up?" Bruce asked quietly, looking back at him.

A long moment past, the Joker not replying, only continuing to stare.

And for an instant, the larger man thought maybe he hadn't heard him.

But then the lunatic's voice came, almost too soft to hear.

"I… I'm c-cold."

Bruce's face lined.

"… I know." He said softly, his hands reaching over the Joker's shoulders, beginning to rub gently up and down his arms.

After a moment, he reached for a washcloth, hung over the tubs edge, dipping it into the water to get it soaked.

The Joker's eyes watched him, still but for the trembling through his frame.

And he was quiet as Bruce began drawing the cloth across his skin, gentle and slow, gradually the numbing cold through his body beginning to lessen, though still he found himself unable to stop the shivering which held him so unrelentingly in its grip.

And as his thoughts began to clear, becoming more and more cognizant of what was happening, he suddenly realized he felt…

What was it?

He didn't know what it was.

He didn't know.

Only that he didn't like it.

His eyes fell away, glancing down at the water, staring at his body, his lips pulling into a vague frown.

"… I… I c-can't stop sh-sh… shaking…" he repeated absently, sounding confused.

Bruce felt his heart sink, unable to keep the distress from his face.

He wasn't used to this…

To hearing the Joker sound so… lost.

God, he was always so sure of himself.

He'd always been unshakably sure.

"… I know." Bruce answered, dragging the cloth across the Joker's shoulders, moving it down across his chest. "You were close to hypothermic. But you're okay now. It'll stop soon. Don't worry."

"… I'm n-n… not w-w-worried." The smaller man shot, his eyes lifting, staring at the crusader with agitation.

Bruce paused, looking back at him.

A long, awkward moment of silence passing between them.

Bruce's mouth tugged down at the corners.

"I know. I'm sorry, I just was trying…"

"I ju-j… just can't c-c-control it." The Joker cut him short, looking away finally.

And he'd begun to slump farther into the water.

The vigilante reached out, his hands taking hold of the madman under his arms, lifting him back up.

"Try to stay up." He said, easing the Joker back against the tub's back wall again.

The smaller man's palms planted flat against the tubs bottom, arms shaking. It was clear he was struggling to stay upright, and so Bruce didn't hesitate, wrapping an arm round his back, leaning his chest along his forearm, holding him secure.

"Here, just… let me support you." He instructed.

For a long moment, it seemed like the Joker wasn't going to listen, the crusader feeling his frame go rigid against his arm, like he was wanting to push away.

But within a few seconds, and he felt the lunatic go lax, finally relaxing against him, and Bruce continued running the cloth across his back now, and forward again, picking the Joker slightly up to pull the cloth across his abdomen and chest, back over his shoulders and down his arms.

The Joker's eyes stayed turned down the whole time, seeming to fix unfocused on the water around him, staring through its transparent surface.

And a kind of unsettling dread had begun to spread through the pit of Bruce's stomach at it.

It always unnerved him, when the Joker became quiet like this.

If the clown was talking up a blue streak, that usually meant he was okay.

It was when he stopped, you had to start to worry.

The vigilante knew he'd messed up.

_God_, had he messed up.

And he didn't understand _why_.

Why he kept making so many damned mistakes.

Why it was around the Joker he'd _always_ made so many.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear a voice telling him…

It was because the Joker was the only one who'd ever brought emotion into the equation.

The rest of the criminals in this city, the rest of his "rogues" gallery, as the media so absurdly called it, Bruce had always been able to detach himself from them.

He'd been able to detach himself from their actions, no matter what they did, and approach it all with total objectivity.

He didn't allow himself to get involved beyond solving the cases and stopping the crimes.

But with the Joker…

It had always been different with the Joker.

He'd never been able to separate himself the same way when the lunatic was involved.

He'd told himself innumerable times it had been because everything the Joker did was aimed almost exclusively towards garnering his specific attention.

And to an extent, that was true.

But these last, several weeks, he'd realized…

He'd realized what it really was, was that…

It was that, there was so much in the Joker he understood.

So much in him he knew, deep down, he _knew _was also in himself.

It was only just now he was beginning to admit that.

That he was begging to be able to admit that.

The very thing the Joker had for all these years been screaming in his face.

When he'd allowed himself to really listen…

When he'd been given the ability to…

When he could see finally the Joker wasn't the monster he'd tried so very hard to convince himself he was…

He was starting to see what the madman had been saying all this time.

What he'd been trying to explain.

He wasn't saying what it was, what he'd seen or experienced or felt which had made him understand it…

But Bruce supposed maybe it didn't really matter what it _was_.

Only what it had _caused_.

As it had caused the same realization in him.

The Joker knew the ugliness of the world.

Of life.

He knew the tragedy of it all.

Of all of them.

The tragedy of simply existing, in a reality where that existence meant nothing.

Where all of their suffering and pain and heartbreak meant absolutely _nothing_.

Where none of it would change the course of anything.

None of their burden or struggle would stop the same from happening to anyone else.

And wasn't that something Bruce knew too?

Something he'd known since he was an eight year old child?

The harsh reality of the world they lived in, and the lives they led.

How events would transpire and conspire and unfold to completely shatter and destroy the only happiness of an innocent, uncorrupted boy. To destroy his very _life_.

And only to realize those events which had devastated him so completely, and left him so very, very empty, they hadn't _conspired_ at all.

There'd been no special reason for what had happened to him, or to his Mother and Father.

There had been no deeper meaning, no greater plan which their deaths would instigate into action.

No purpose to their dying beyond their _just _dying.

No _reason_ for it at all.

It had just… _happened_.

Dumb luck and unfortunate chance.

One incident leading to another, and another, and another, none of them at all related, none of them the result of the other.

Just happenstance and incident, accidentally coming together to converge into a singular, destructive end.

Bruce knew that.

He'd always known it.

_Always_ had.

Even through the promise he'd made to his parents the night they'd died, even through the years of training and conditioning and preparing he'd put himself to fulfill and keep that promise, even through the endless nights of trying so desperately to stop the same thing from happening to others as had happened to him.

Even through all of that, he knew there was no _reason_ his parent's had died.

That they hadn't had to die for any reason at all.

They just had, and it had ruined his life. And because he hadn't been able to accept that, hadn't been able to deal with the utter, intolerable reality that their deaths had amounted to nothing, and changed nothing, that the stamping out of their existence hadn't changed the course of anything, that it hadn't slowed things down, or led to some greater good, hadn't changed the way people lived their lives, or saw the world, or treated one another, that their dying hadn't been necessary to _anything_, he'd decided to _give _it meaning.

To manufacture and create a meaning for it.

Because he couldn't accept that there was none.

That had always been too painful.

He'd convinced himself it was so he could be inspired to stop others from feeling the agony of such complete loss as he had.

He'd lied to himself, and told himself his parent's had died for something bigger than themselves.

But that wasn't true.

It wasn't true.

They'd just died.

And he'd grown up without them.

Without their love.

And no matter how many criminals he stopped, no matter how many lives he saved…

He couldn't ever bring them back.

And it wouldn't stop unrelated, non-conspiring, totally individual events from ricocheting unintentionally off one another, and snowballing purely through coincidence into ruining someone else's life, some day, some where, for no reason at all except for that was just what happened.

The _Joker_ had been his constant reminder of this.

From the moment he'd appeared, the very first time he'd ever shown up.

He'd been like the living, breathing embodiment of that sickening, cruel truth.

No reason to anything. No purpose. No cause.

Nothing you could do to stop it.

Nothing you could change, or prepare for.

The Joker had encapsulated all of those things, and enacted them, over, and over, and over again.

Destruction and death and chaos and pain for nothing beyond that it simply existed in the world, and it would happen always, all the time, everywhere, no matter what anyone did.

Proving over and over and over again that vicious reality Bruce had tried for so long to deny. For so long to _fight_.

The Joker was like the personification of that unstoppable tide, a current impossible to swim against. The hopelessness of trying to survive, when in the end, you never, ever could.

Bruce was sure for a long time he'd hated the Joker for it.

For showing him and reminding him every, single moment of the uselessness of his own crusade.

Of existing in the form of a man as the very thing he sought so desperately to _right_.

Because meaningless destruction could only be _wrong_.

The Joker being there wouldn't let him _believe_ it.

He kept telling him the only one who was wrong was _him_.

For thinking he could ever change the design of nature itself.

That he could challenge her, and tell her it wasn't right to obliterate her very own creations just because… she could.

The Joker did the same, and did so with as great an uncompromising will.

With as little need to explain why.

Rubbing it in all their faces that it was because there _was _none at all.

As unwilling to hear pleas of reason and rationality and appeals.

As unyielding and unimpressed by people's puny threats and righteous indignation at being, in their minds, so terribly wronged.

If nature couldn't make all of them hear how loudly she was laughing, it was the Joker who provided the voice for her.

He was her great messenger.

And Bruce had hated him for it.

He had.

He'd hated him so much.

But he guessed maybe that was like hating nature itself.

And he thought maybe he better understood now…

The Joker had always insisted so fervently that his only intention was to help the crusader.

Bruce hadn't ever really understood what he meant.

Not until recently.

Not until… all of this.

Talking to the Joker, listening to him.

Really _listening_.

If the Joker served as a constant reminder as to the hopelessness of all their existence, he served too as a reminder that, in the greater scheme, there was nothing really _wrong_ with that hopelessness at all. Only what man _made _wrong with it, because they didn't like it, so pretending it was something which needed to be changed. Convincing themselves it was something which _could_.

And maybe it had been Bruce's own refusal to accept that which had caused him to cast the madman in the role of antagonist in the first place.

Because he didn't like what he was saying.

Didn't like how impossible he made it for him to pretend.

The Joker had seen in him from the very start all of this.

He'd recognized it. The same understanding of things as he himself had.

The same realizations.

And he'd been telling him, this whole time, he'd been telling him…

Suffering was denying what _was_.

"_I just want you to stop suffering Bats_." The Joker had said to him once.

He'd sounded so much then like he was mocking him.

… Maybe Bruce had just heard it that way.

Because he'd never wanted to consider that maybe it was true.

"A… are w-we in your h-hous-se?"

His thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the Joker's voice, thin and weak.

He glanced down, seeing the madman still hadn't brought his eyes up, still with that lost expression across his gaunt face.

A moment passing, and Bruce nodded.

"Yes." He answered.

And at last the Joker looked up, staring at him with uncertainty.

And Bruce still couldn't believe what he looked like.

Couldn't believe how hurt he'd been, how ravaged he was.

None of it fit with the invincible force he'd for so long thought of this man as.

"… H-how did… d-did we ge-get h… here?" The smaller man asked, and the vigilante's brow furrowed.

"… I carried you," he said. "up from the cave. You don't remember?"

And feebly, the Joker shook his head, his eyes sliding away, casting dazedly out ahead of him into the bathroom.

Seconds passing in silence.

"… I'm cold." He repeated.

The vigilante frowned.

"I know." He answered.

For several minutes more, Bruce continued washing the cloth across the Joker's body, being gentle as possible, trying his best still to warm him. Until eventually, the madman's trembling had been reduced to only a vague tremor, hardly visible. Only really obvious if you touched him, and you could feel him shaking.

And finally, the crusader set the cloth aside, hooking his hands underneath the Joker's arms, beginning carefully to lift him.

"Come on." He said quietly. "Let's get you out of here."

The Joker didn't resist him, still hanging limply as he let Bruce lift him out of the water, silent.

And the only move he made then was to reach out as the larger man took him under the bend in his knees, and across his back, his thin hands clinging along Bruce's strong arms, grasping weakly.

And Bruce brought him close, trying to keep him from the chill of the tiled room, moving quickly with him then towards the door.

Passing the towel rack on the way, he reached out, taking the largest one up, bringing it with them as he moved them out into his bedroom, towards his bed.

The Joker remained quiet, still holding onto the crusader as they neared it.

And as Bruce lowered him down onto the mattress, the madman was without the strength to keep himself up, not able to sit.

Bruce felt it, with the way the clown still held to him, how he still shook. And so he eased him down, not letting the Joker go until he was lying back and secure. And Bruce helped slide him farther onto the bed, picking his frail legs up until he was all the way on.

Taking up the towel, he began quickly but gently to dry the lunatic, rubbing the cotton cloth across all of his front, over his shoulders, down along his chest and stomach, down his arms and legs.

And he pushed a hand underneath the Joker's shoulder, easing him up slowly, urging him quietly…

"I'm just going to turn you over onto your stomach here, so I can dry the rest of you…" he spoke in little more than a whisper, beginning to turn the smaller man over, and still, the Joker gave no protest, frame lax as he let the crusader do what he wanted.

And the room fell totally quiet.

Bruce somehow finding it more distracting, the Joker being so silent, and he couldn't look away from his ravaged body anymore, forced to look at it as he wiped him dry.

Until he was satisfied, and he eased the Joker over again, onto his back, swallowing thickly as the madman's eyes looked up at him from the bed, still with that same, puzzled expression.

He'd tried humiliating the lunatic earlier by stripping him naked.

He didn't know why he'd thought that would work.

The Joker had never shown humiliation at anything.

The way he laid here now, totally exposed, it made Bruce feel even more ridiculous for having resorted to something so… childish.

It made him hate himself for being so cruel…

"Do you feel any better?" He asked softly.

A long moment passing before the Joker's voice seemed barely to reach his ears, even in the silence of the place.

"… L-little Bat… you worry s-so much."

And Bruce watched the slightest smile, just hardly pull up along the corners of the madman's ruined lips.

The vigilante frowned, though he supposed that gave him his answer.

He straightened, standing fully, before quickly he turned, striding the few feet to his dresser, pressed up against the opposite wall. And pulling the drawer, he retrieved a pair of silk pajamas. They wouldn't be a perfect fit, too large, and not quite long enough. But they would have to do for now. Out of another drawer, he grabbed a pair of clean briefs, before heading back towards the Joker, still lying against his back, staring now it seemed at the ceiling.

His hands had folded over his sunken in stomach, his chest rising and falling shallowly.

Within a moment, Bruce had reached him.

And already he was bending, setting the pants and shirt along the mattress.

"Come on," he began softly. "let's get you dressed."

He reached out, pushing his arm beneath the Joker's shoulders, his other hand tucking behind his head, beginning gently to ease the smaller man up.

"Do you think you can hold yourself up at all?" He asked.

The Joker stared back a moment, silent, before eventually, his eyes slid away.

"… I don't know." He breathed softly.

Bruce nodded.

"Okay. That's alright." He said. "This'll only take a minute and then you can lye back down."

And keeping his arm around the Joker, he began to dress him, the process slower.

But it didn't matter.

He didn't mind.

He realized he didn't mind this at all.

And within a few minutes, he'd managed to get the cloths on to the smaller man. A moment later again lifting him up, off the bed, holding him tightly against him as he pulled the covers back.

"Come on," he repeated, easing the Joker down onto the now exposed sheets. "just lye down here."

The Joker said nothing, continued to make no protest, silently allowing Bruce to handle him back into the bed.

And the crusader eased the lunatic's head onto the pillow, gently, getting his legs up until he way lying fully along the mattress, on his side, beginning then to pull the cover back up, over the Joker's shoulder.

The Joker watched him, his hands curled together against his own chest.

He smiled weakly when Bruce straightened, staring down at him, seeming to examine his work.

"Do you _always_ put people who've tried to kill you to bed like this?" The madman asked, laughing lightly.

Bruce's mouth quirked to the side, eyes narrowing as he held his hands at his hips.

"You've never _seriously_ tried to kill me." He answered back after a moment.

And the Joker's smile turned to a grin, his fingers reaching out, grasping into the material of the blanket and pulling it tighter against him, still chilly.

"Says you." He answered.

And now Bruce's own lips pulled up at the corners, and he was bending down, close to the madman, his hand reaching out, resting softly atop his nearly bare head.

"I thought I was paying you a compliment Joker." He said. "Are you admitting you've tried but just don't have the stuff to get it done?"

And he couldn't help the slight chuckle which slipped past his lips at the momentarily bemused looked across the Joker's face.

It didn't last long, the clown's lips quickly turning back up, and he giggled.

"No. You're right dear." He responded. "You'd have been dead a _long_ time ago if I was really _serious_."

And for a long moment, the two men stared hard at each other, silent.

Their faces falling stoic.

Seconds passing without words.

Seconds more…

Nothing…

… And then the both of them laughed together uncontrollably.


End file.
